


Deep Water

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: The Final Re-Write [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Eventual Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9688661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: Or, as I refer to it: The Final Re-Write.  In this world Eurus had other plans for Mycroft, John and Sherlock after the death of the governor.  A different ordeal plays out in Sherrinford… and a very different homecoming takes place as a result.





	1. The Showdown

**Author's Note:**

> With tremendous gratitude to Ariane DeVere, creator of amazing Sherlock transcripts. They are clearly a labor of love, and this work would not have been possible without them.

The Governor’s body slumped against the glass of Eurus’ cell, little bits of brain and other matter slowly sliding down to the floor. Near the wall Mycroft retched again, then spat onto the floor, more accustomed to issuing the order to kill than the act itself.

Eurus leaned slightly towards the camera, taking up more of the screen and obscuring the corpse of the governor’s wife as she said, “This is an experiment. There will be rigour. Sherlock, pick up the gun. It’s your turn next.” The pool of blood on the floor was still growing, creeping closer to the gun. When her brother didn’t move, Eurus continued, “When I tell you to use it, and I will, remember what happened this time.”

Still refusing to move, Sherlock looked down at the gun as he asked, “What if I don’t want a gun?”

Eurus cocked her head to one side, as if amused by his question, “Oh, the gun is intended as a mercy.”

“For whom?”

“You.”

Sherlock finally looked up from the gun and regarded the screen, “How so?”

“If someone else had to die, would you really want to do it with your bare hands? It would waste valuable time.”

Her words made Sherlock twist to face the other men. Mycroft stared back, wide-eyed and leaning against the wall, while John’s attention was still on the screen. 

The doctor swallowed hard, and without looking to the other man said, “Probably just take it.”

Sherlock stepped across the cell and picked up the gun. He checked the clip, then looked back to the screen, “There’s only one bullet left.”

Eurus gave one of her short nods, “You only need one. But you _will_ need it.” A door slid open in the wall and she tilted her chin to indicate it, “Please go through. The next task is waiting for you.”

With a shrug, John spun on his heel and marched through the door, followed by Sherlock. Mycroft cast one last look at the governor’s body, then followed as well.

 

As they entered the next room an immediate question arose that Sherlock jumped on with his usual sarcasm, “Hey, sis, don’t mean to complain but this one’s empty: What happened? Did you run out of ideas?”

In response, a screen flickered to life and Eurus appeared, apparently still in the governor’s office. She blinked twice in exasperation and corrected her brother, “It’s not empty, Sherlock. You’ve still got the gun, haven’t you? I told you you’d need it, because only two can play the next game and solve the final problem. Just two of you go on from here; your choice.” Her tone changed to a brighter sing-song as she continued, “It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most: John or Mycroft?”

Sherlock had known it was coming as soon as he’d seen the single bullet left in the gun, but her confirmation made his stomach twist painfully. Mycroft frowned sharply, glancing at John, while the doctor simply turned away.

Eurus continued, “It’s an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend: Mycroft or John Watson?”

Mycroft broke her litany, barking, “Eurus, enough!” There was force behind it, but it didn’t have any effect on her.

“Not yet, I think.” Her unblinking gaze hardened, “If you don’t pick quickly, I’ll shoot them both. You know I’ll do it Sherlock.”

As her words hung in the air, Holmes turned to Holmes, “Well?” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at his brother.

Stumbling though increasingly less probable options and vanishing possibilities, Sherlock responded with a slightly bewildered, “Well, what?”

“We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?” Mycroft nodded towards John, “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. You’re a fine man in many respects,” then turned back to his brother and commanded, “make your goodbyes and shoot him.” When no action was forthcoming, he reiterated more loudly, “ _Shoot_ him!”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took three quick steps towards Mycroft to question, “What?”

Mycroft only spared a dismissive glance at the other man, continuing to implore his brother instead, “Shoot Doctor Watson. There’s no question who has to continue from here: it’s us. You and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don’t prolong his agony: shoot him.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. “Do I get a say in this?”

Finally, Mycroft turn to address him directly, “Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours.”

John glared, jaw tightly clenched, then all at once he seemed to deflate. “Shit.” He blinked twice, then turned to Sherlock. “He’s right. He is, in fact, right.”

Mycroft continued to stare intently at John rather than his brother, even as he continued to implore, ”Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with,” he turned away from the doctor and faced his brother directly again, “and we can get to work.” When Sherlock didn’t move to obey, he chuckled sarcastically, “God! Pathetic. You always were the slow one.” Derision filled tone and his face twisted in a sneer, “The idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life do the right thing: put this stupid little man out of all our misery.” He hissed urgently, “ _Shoot him._ ”

Sherlock didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, preferring to look down somewhere in the middle distance even as he said, “Stop it.”

Mycroft tried to press his advantage, continuing on relentlessly, “Look at him. What is he? Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You’ll find another.” Across the room John visibly flinched at the confirmation of every insecurity that came with standing next to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s voice wavered even as he interjected more firmly, “Please, for God’s sake, just stop it.”

It was the plea that broke through the monologue, although Mycroft kept his imperious stance as he asked, “Why?”

Slowly, gathering himself as he did, Sherlock met his brother’s gaze and admitted, “Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.”

Mycroft’s stance weakened, like an actor stepping off stage and beyond the view of the audience.

Sherlock could sense John’s confusion across the room, and addressed it directly, “Ignore everything he just said. He’s being kind. He’s trying to make it easy for me to kill him.” Taking a breath, he raised the gun, “Which is why this is going to be so much harder.”

Despite the gun trained on him, Mycroft smiled and quipped, “You said you liked my Lady Bracknell.”

Madness. It was utter madness. John couldn’t believe what was happening. He looked between the brothers and urgently whispered, “Sherlock. Don’t.”

“It’s not your decision, Doctor Watson.” Straightening again, Mycroft turned back to his brother, “Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sherlock gathered himself, then asked, “Where would you suggest?”

“Well,” aware of the reputation he himself had cultivated, Mycroft adjusted the top button of his shift, “I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me.” He continued to straighten his tie, then smiled weakly, ruefully, “I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but why don’t we try for that?”

Sherlock smiled ruefully as well, even as John approached him with an outstretched hand, “I won’t allow this.”

Mycroft spoke up before John could continue, “This is my fault: Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?”

“Her Christmas treat: five minutes conversation with Jim Moriarty, five years ago.”

Sherlock frowned, “What did they discuss?”

“Five minutes conversation,” Mycroft shrugged to convey an appreciation for his lapse in judgment, “unsupervised.”

John stumbled as if physically struck by the admission. The ramifications… Everything. Sherlock’s fake suicide, those years alone, all of it came back to five minutes conversation as a Christmas present. Sherlock sighed, then raised the gun again with a steadier hand.

“Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers,” Mycroft rolled his shoulders back and clasped his hands behind himself, “by request.”

“Jim Moriarty,” Eurus was looming close to the screen, pupils blown wide as she eagerly drank in the detail of the scene, “thought you’d make this choice. He was so excited.”

“Five minutes.” Sherlock’s teeth were almost clenched in anger as he spoke, “ It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.” He glanced over at John, then back to his brother and came to a conclusion, “Well not on my watch.”

Eurus’ eye movements sped up as she deduced intent and action, “What are you doing?”

Sherlock straightened and spoke clearly and deliberately, “A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.”

A second behind his sister, concern washed over Mycroft’s face. Concern which quickly shifted to horror as Sherlock pressed the muzzle of the gun under his own chin.

“I’m remembering the governor.” Sherlock swallowed against the cool of the metal. “Ten…”

Eurus’ eyes widened, “No, no, Sherlock.”

“Nine… Eight…”

Mycroft and John raised their hands imploringly, but didn’t approach the other man for fear of escalating an already dire situation.

“You can’t!” There was genuine emotion in Eurus’ voice, even as Sherlock’s countdown continued through seven, “You don’t know about Redbeard yet.”

“Six…”

“Sherlock!” Eurus yelled even as John and Mycroft were mute with horror.

“Five…”

Genuine panic entered her voice as she commanded, “Sherlock, stop that at once!”

There was a sting in the back of Sherlock’s neck, even as he continued counting, “Four…” He reached back and plucked the small dart from his skin, “Three…” The world began to swim, so he narrowed his focus to the feel of the trigger against his finger, “Two… One…” As his vision greyed out he focused his energy and pulled the trigger.

There was a thunderous bang and Sherlock’s head snapped backwards even as his knees buckled. His last dim awareness was a shock of pain and his sister screaming.


	2. Deep Water

It was the pain that told him he was decidedly _not dead_. Sherlock sucked in a breath, aware of a sticky wetness over his chin and neck, and a shock of pain when he swallowed. He’d shot himself, he remembered. Shot himself right under his chin, yet he was still alive. How? 

He remembered a sting in the side of his neck as he counted down: a tranquilizer. Had he been knocked unconscious before he could shoot? No, he remembered squeezing the trigger, the bang and a shock of pain even as he fell unconscious. Perhaps his hand had relaxed with the tranquilizer and his aim hadn’t been true? But he was bleeding, and it was hard to breathe: his airway was compromised. Gingerly, he reached up: touching his fingers to his neck and then blinking as they swam into focus in front of his face. Blood. Not dry: tacky, but still bleeding. Not good.

He rolled over, then worked his way onto his knees. The room shifted sickeningly and he breathed quickly through his nose to choke back vomit. He was in the same room as before, but John and Mycroft were gone. There was a spatter of blood droplets on the walls and a puddle on the floor. Rapidly drying. He’d been out for a little while. The gun was on the floor, presumably where he’d dropped it. Oh. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to notice. There were no other marks on the walls: either he had a bullet embedded in his brain, or he’d fired a blank into his chin. Even without a bullet, that could easily be fatal. Point-blank should have killed him… he must have lowered the gun just enough as he blacked out. There was a scrap of medical gauze on the floor next to the gun: he picked it up and gingerly touched it to the vicinity of his Adam’s apple.

“Oh, there he is.” Eurus’ voice crackled over the speakers and Sherlock felt another wave of nausea roll over him. “Figured it out, did you? You almost ruined the point of having a blank round in there, brother dear. For a second there I thought you had managed to kill yourself after all.”

“Sorry,” his voice was weak and painful in his ruined throat, but he forced it out anyway, “to disappoint you.”

“Deep waters, Sherlock, all your life. You didn’t think Carl Powers was really your first case, did you? Oh no,” she shook her head, dark hair tossing, “Now, it’s time for you to solve the very first one. And the last one: The Final Problem.”

A series of projectors mounted on the ceiling whirred to life and Sherlock found himself surrounded by a panorama of his forgotten childhood: the house at Musgrave, the gravestones, a stone fence with a gate, a forest in the background and a large beech tree rising in the mid-ground.

He spat on the ground – somehow there seemed to be blood in his mouth as well – but it didn’t make speaking any easier. “What is this?” The words came out hoarse and slurred and he wished he could have a mirror to see the damage directly.

“It’s home, Sherlock, you know that. Now: pay attention this time.” And with that, she began to softly sing, “I that am lost,  
Oh who, will find me  
Deep down below  
The old beech tree?  
Help succor me now,  
The east wind’s blowing  
Sixteen by six, brother  
And under we go…”

“What do you want me to _do_ , Eurus?” He croaked forcibly through his tightening airway, ignoring the pain, “The song makes no sense! Even Mycroft says so.”

“Well, we both know Mycroft is a little slow. Come on, Sherlock, play with me.”

“Why should I?”

She rolled her eyes as if remembering something, “Motivation: here it is.” A screen flickered to life and showed a close up of two men lying on a beach. It was Mycroft and John.

“What have you done to them?”

She shrugged, “Just knocked them out. They should be coming around,” one of the figures stirred and a groan was audible through the speaker, “ah, very soon.”

As Sherlock watched, John groaned again before slowly sitting up, clutching his head as he did so. Mycroft stirred, then sat up as well, blearily looking at the other man before turning to survey his surroundings.

The camera pulled back slightly, allowing Sherlock to appreciate their situation at the same time they did. 

The detective’s eyes widened, “What have you done?”

“Motivation Sherlock. Now, why don’t you start thinking about my song, hmmm?”

“John,” Mycroft swallowed, his voice audible on the feed to Sherlock’s room as well, “Are you apprehending our situation as I am?”

“For once, Mycroft, I think I just might be.”

They were below the tide line, well below, perched on a slippery blanket of seaweed and barnacles that the waves were already licking. A large metal ring was protruding from the water, only just breaking the surface: sturdy, perhaps intended to anchor a mooring line. It was the chain running through the ring that gave them pause: one end was cuffed to John’s right ankle, the other to Mycroft’s. It only took a glance up the rocks to confirm that there was only enough slack for one of them to stay above water. For one to live, the other would have to drown next to the ring.

“The flood is fast here and the tide has already changed – I’d say we have under an hour.” Mycroft bowed his head for a moment, then turned to fix the other man with a piercing gaze, “When the time comes: swim swiftly, John, swim hard. Please don’t try to prolong anything.”

“No.” After what they had just been through, John couldn’t _believe_ the argument was starting all over again. “No, no, Mycroft, no…”

Mycroft, the bastard, had an expression on his face that was almost a faint smile as he insisted, “You must.”

“Why?” John could feel the exasperation that often accompanied dealing with the Holmes brothers rising in his throat and threatening to choke him, “Why are you so ready to die today?”

Faint, un-nerving smile still in place, Mycroft sat as easily on the seaweed as he did when commandeering Sherlock’s chair in Baker St. Only the way he absently ran his finger over the ring on his right hand suggested a deeper emotion. “Because you don’t know the truth about Redbeard.”

John blinked at the sudden admission, “What truth? You told us.”

“Think Sherlock,” Eurus’ eyes glittered as she whispered through the speaker, adding her voice to the unfolding situation, “Remember Daddy’s allergy? What _was_ he allergic to?”

Outside, Mycroft continued, softly, “Redbeard was not what Sherlock remembers.”

Sherlock was both listening and remembering at the same time. The hand that had been holding a scrap of gauze to his chin dropped and he murmured aloud: “He was my only friend.”

The truth continued to flow unstoppably from Mycroft’s lips, “Redbeard’s real name was Victor Trevor.”

Eurus voice whispered over Mycroft’s on the speakers, “What would he never let you have all those times you begged? Well, he’d _never_ let you have a dog.”

Inside, Sherlock breathed the name in a sigh of pain, “Victor.”

John froze in disbelief, “He was a _boy_?”

Mycroft nodded, “They were inseparable, Sherlock and Victor. The very best of friends.” There was a wistfulness in his recollection of the memory, “I’d certainly never had a friend like that.”

There was a shaking in the foundations of Sherlock’s mind palace as an entire wing collapsed, mortar and false memories crumbling around him. _Victor_ , Sherlock thought, _Victor!_. And then there he was: shorter, strawberry blonde, eye-patch… they must have been playing pirates. Victor beamed at him, waved a sword, yelled back, “Come on, Yellowbeard!”

Yellowbeard. That was him, Sherlock realized. His own voice echoed in the re-emerging corridors of his mind palace, calling back, “Come on, Redbeard.” He was on the floor, shaking uncontrollably as if chilled. When had he sunk down to his knees?

“It was my fault.” Mycroft’s voice over the speakers broke through Sherlock’s shock.

John and Sherlock responded simultaneously, “What?”

On the rocks, Mycroft licked his lips and confessed again, more loudly, “It was my fault. There were signs, John. You know the kinds of things she used to do. I should have known!”

There was pity in the doctor’s eyes. “You were a child too, Mycroft. A bright one, but a child nonetheless.”

Mycroft shook his head, he had to make John understand: “One morning I opened the door to his room and found her there with him: she must have crept down the hall after we went to sleep. Sherlock’s voice was so hoarse he couldn’t speak. She _said_ she had been making him laugh, that she loved to make him laugh.” Mycroft’s gaze shifted beyond John, overcome by the memory, “But his eyes were swollen almost shut and his face was covered in a crust of dried tears: he hadn’t been laughing, he’d been screaming. For hours.”

“Jesus.”

“You see: we should have known. I should have known.”

“Mycroft: families, they don’t work like that. You try to see the best and you hope and you second-guess. She was clearly,” he struggled for the right word for a fraction of a second, “unusual, but it’s not surprising you didn’t see until too late. No one would have.

“And here I thought us Holmes were anything but ordinary.” They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the waves. Eventually, Mycroft ventured, “Do you think Sherlock survived?”

Something twisted in John’s chest as he remembered his best friend’s last words to them. “I don’t know.” Looking down, he spotted a few droplets of dried blood on his sleeve. Sherlock’s blood. He gulped, “I heard a shot.”

Mycroft bowed his head, fingers of his left hand worrying the ring on his right, “I heard the shot too.”

John blew out a hard breath and admitted, “I don’t think so.”

Mycroft looked out at the ocean. Eventually, he said, “So you see why it has to be me, John. This is a Holmes affair. You may be,” he remembered Sherlock’s words to him in Baker Street, “ _family_ , but this is for me to end and you to survive.” He let one corner of his mouth curl up, “If not for you, then for Rosamund.”

Rosie. All the fight in John deflated at the thought of his daughter. This time, he would have to let Mycroft win on his terms.

Mycroft felt his neck, noticing for the first time: “She took my tie.”

“So?”

“I have it on good authority that drowning via inhalation of salt water is particularly unpleasant.” He reached down and began picking at his shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to garrote myself with my shoelaces.”

“What! No, Mycroft, stop.” John felt so very tired, “We’re not there yet. Okay? Not yet.”

Something in John’s voice made Mycroft pause, then give a jerky nod. “Not yet.”

A wave broached the surface of their ledge, soaking the fabric of their trousers. The water was a shock of cold, and both shivered. “Here,” John carefully hauled himself to his feet, then offered Mycroft a hand, “We should stay out of the water as long as possible, or the cold will finish us both off first.”

For a moment, it looked like Mycroft was going to refuse to stand, but then he nodded and complied. They stood side-by-side, looking out over the waves: each, in their own way, remembering Sherlock Holmes.

Inside, Eurus switched off the exterior video feed to command her brother’s attention. “Now: the tide is coming, Sherlock. It’s time to play. _I that am lost, oh who, will find me? Deep down below…_ ”


	3. Time and Tide

_Doom shall I bring to him, I that am queen  
Lost forever, nine by nineteen._

The last strains of Eurus’ song died and Sherlock hurled himself back into his mind palace in desperation. The beech tree? No, he’d dug holes all around it as if he could unearth Victor from the ground alive. Sixteen feet by six; sixteen yards; sixteen meters; he’d tried them all. The newly recalled memories were discordant – they skipped and jumped and jangled his nerve endings as they asserted themself in the reemerging wing of his mind palace. One moment: a vision of Redbeard waving a sword and the feel of a matching wood hilt clasped tightly in his right hand. The next, Eurus running in circles around him with a little wooden airplane calling, _”Play with me, Sherlock! Play with me._ Mycroft was even there too, plump and awkward, but laughing as Sherlock clambered onto his back. Flash after flash of deleted and re-written memories that distracted him from Eurus’ puzzle.

He even heard his own, devastated voice, “You killed him.” It sounded odd to his ears – the voice of a child. Even inside his mind palace he was aware of tears on his cheeks. He tried to take a breath, but reality tugged him back out of memories when the air wasn’t forthcoming.

Opening his eyes again, Sherlock coughed and spat blood and mucus onto the floor. The cough made hot pain spread though his neck and jaw that seared white sparks to the edge of his vision. He spat again, and swiped at the wetness pooled in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Eurus leaned closer to the camera, looming on the screen mounted in the one gap in the projections. “Perhaps you did damage yourself more than I realized. How _is_ breathing?”

“Breathing?” Sherlock’s voice was even weaker than before and there was a wet noise when he inhaled, “Breathing’s boring.” Oh, he remembered the last time he made that assertion – his very first case with John. Now, however, he had to admit he’d changed his mind since then. _I don’t want to die_.

 _Lovely. Here it comes_. Culverton Smith, a voice from under the floor of his mind palace.

“Quiet!” Sherlock hissed at the floor, ignoring how Eurus’ eyes sparked with interest.

 _Come on, Yellowbeard!_ Another voice from his mind palace that made Sherlock lift his head towards the screen and force out, “You killed my best friend.”

Eurus countered with a little nod of her chin, “I never _had_ a best friend. I had _no-one._ ”

In his mind palace a little girl in a blue dress and oatmeal cardigan flew a toy airplane along the shore. Alone. 

Sherlock found himself standing in the new corridor of his mind palace, her voice echoing around him, “Play with me, Sherlock! Play with me!” 

The words of her song appeared, scrawled along the walls in a childlike hand. “I don’t know what you want, Eurus.” He spun around slowly, speaking to her within his own mind, “I don’t understand.” Outside, the tide was rising. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and whispered again, “I don’t understand.”

 

******************************************************************

The water was knee deep, shockingly cold, and rapidly rising. Mycroft and John stood side by side, each caught in their own thoughts as the heat was slowly sapped from their bodies. A larger wave sopped above John’s knees and he shivered violently. Next to him, Mycroft was impassive, perhaps deep in whatever mind palace he had of his own. The cloudy sky threatened rain, matching John’s mood. 

The absurdity of the situation finally cracked his somber thoughts and John eyed Mycroft’s profile and said, “So…”

Mycroft jerked as if startled, but recovered quickly, “So?”

John shrugged, “You know: your brother once ripped my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. What are your intentions given you have me tied-up at the beach?” Despite the situation, he couldn’t keep a faint smirk from his face. Sneaking another sideways glance, he was gratified to see an answering twist to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mycroft turned from the view to look down at the other man directly, “People would talk.”

John found himself repeating Sherlock’s words from so long ago, “People do little else.” He chuckled, softly, although he was aware his eyes were wet.

Mycroft snorted, clearly amused, then said, “You know, Doctor Watson, I don’t think I ever thanked you enough.”

“What for?”

“I worried about him. Constantly.” Mycroft made a face that was half-grimace, half-smile, “I worried less once you became his friend.”

A bedsit in Hoxton and the feel of his Sig in his hands came back to John so acutely he could smell the dust and stale tea as he admitted, “He saved my life.”

“Ah.” Mycroft tilted his head, “Yes, ‘trust issues’, and all that?”

John nodded – something was growing in his throat and making it hard to speak.

“I was gratified my assessment was correct, and you used your gun on that cabbie rather than yourself.” Mycroft couldn’t feel his feet or lower legs any longer. At first it had stung, then ached, them the limbs had simply ceased to exist except where the water licked dry skin. Memories that had been running through his mind as he watched the approaching storm suddenly seemed important to share. “He was a delightful child.”

John raised an eyebrow that seemed to ask, _Sherlock?_

“Rambunctious, I believe would be an appropriate term, but in a good sense. Imaginative, perceptive, mischievous… loving.” Mycroft smiled at a memory of thin arms grabbing around his neck and an adoring younger brother clambering onto his back to be carried to bed. “I had a microscope that he was expressly prohibited from touching. Sherlock used to sneak into my room and stand on my desk chair in order to use it. He thought he was being very clever, but would put his used slides in the back of the box and think I wouldn’t notice.” 

A drop of rain landed on Mycroft’s cheek, a tear that he wouldn’t shed directly. “One day I left a message for him on a fresh slide, painted in clear wax using a pin. He’d have put his sample on the slide, and when he looked at it an eye and the letter M would have been looking back through whatever drop of pond water he’d found.” Mycroft chuckled, “He didn’t stop, but was much more sneaky after that. Except for my birthday: he drew a message right back. It wasn’t very dexterous, but the intent was clear.”

A larger wave came and the added depth rocked them both, nearly knocking John off-balance when it encircled his waist. Mycroft caught the motion and made a decision. Carefully, with fingers clumsy from cold, he worked the ring off his right hand and held it out.

John looked down at the ring and blinked in confusion.

“Please take it, John.” The familiarity wasn’t lost on the doctor, who reached out and took the trinket. When Mycroft inclined his head suggestively, John slipped it on his own right hand where it would be safe. “I would be gratified if you would keep it safe, whatever happens. Anthea will understand.”

“Mycroft…”

Holding up a forestalling hand, Mycroft shook his head, “It’s time.” 

For a moment, John considered arguing, then simply gave a jerky nod.

With a breath to steel himself against the cold, Mycroft drew himself up to his full height and waded down the slippery carpet until he was standing chest deep, over the ring, practically treading water when a wave came.

The slack allowed John to climb up the rocks, off the sloping ledge they had started on and out of the water. It was cold in the wind – he couldn’t imagine what Mycroft would be experiencing that deep in the water. The garrote seemed to be forgotten: as the water rose it had become clear that the cold would render them insensible before drowning.

In the water, Mycroft turned back towards John as uncontrollable shivers jerked his entire frame. On the rocks, John slowly spun the unfamiliar ring around his finger as it began to rain.


	4. No one

The water was up to Mycroft’s neck, the chain around his ankle holding him in place as the waves continued to roll in. He was breathing far too quickly, more like shallow panting, and had stopped shivering. Soon, he knew, the waves would start going over his head, but he didn’t think he’d be conscious to fight against it. 

John was sitting on the rocks, bracing himself against the tug of the chain. The rain made it hard to see his features clearly, although Mycroft was gratified to see that the waves barely licked his toes. 

_He has the ring_ , Mycroft told himself. _And Eurus has almost made her point: both brothers lives snuffed out by our own hands_. It was possible Eurus would let John go. In truth, he had no idea what her broader intention might be. A larger wave briefly covered his chin and mouth and he closed his eyes until it passed. 

Inside, Sherlock watched the screen as the larger swell swamped his brother, heart thumping violently until it receded and Mycroft opened his eyes again. Still conscious. John was watching as well, determinedly. Eurus had set up a split screen to provide close-ups of both. While John was motionless, Sherlock could perceive the fury and tension in his frame, anger so hot in his gaze it was a wonder he didn’t boil the ocean away.

Another wave covered the lower half of Mycroft’s face and Eurus’ voice came over the speaker, “Time’s almost up, Sherlock. The water is rising.”

Sherlock felt a prickle of frustrated tears behind his eyes, and blinked them back. _I don’t understand_. 

The words made no sense.

There was no-one buried by the beech tree. Not then, and not now.

_Drowned Redbeard_ she’d called him, and now she was drowning Mycroft. Was that a clue? How it could relate to the song, he couldn’t fathom. Fathom, he winced at his own thought-choice. 

Her voice came back to him, _I had no one_.

_No one_

He opened his eyes and turned to the gravestones projected on the wall.

_NEMO_  
n. [nee-moh]  
Latin - no one, nobody 

“Oh my God.” Sherlock mumbled the words aloud, pain momentarily forgotten. “The song was never meant to make any sense. The wrong dates. She used the wrong dates on the gravestones as the key to the cipher… and the cipher was the song.” He turned his back to the image of Mycroft and John and worked as quickly as he possibly could: numbering the words of the song, taking the fake dates from the gravestones, reordering… and suddenly, out of chaos, came an order…

I am lost  
Help me brother  
Save my life  
Before my doom  
I am lost  
Without your love  
Save my soul  
Seek my room

_Seek my room_. He remembered bare feet on wooden stairs, frayed blue pajama cuffs with a pattern of cutlasses. The stairs were steep, or he was small. Scampering up, he took a familiar path: up, around, right, down the hall… his room. At the other end of the hall, another door slammed shut. Mycroft. That meant across the hall must be…

Sherlock roused himself from his mind palace to find it was harder to breathe than before. His airway was continuing to swell and close. Not much longer now. He stood, albeit shakily, and crossed the room to stand in front and slightly to the side of the projected Musgrave. Reaching out a finger, he placed it on the window of Eurus’ bedroom.

“I’m a plane, Sherlock,” her voice crackled loudly over the speakers, and then filling the screen with eyes wide and bewildered, “flying high above the clouds. All alone.”

He wet his lips and forced himself to croak through the pain, “Look how brilliant you are. Your mind has created the perfect metaphor. You’re high above us, all alone in the sky, and you understand everything except how to land. Now, I’m just an idiot, but I’m on the ground. I can bring you home.”

“No. No, no,” her dark hair tossed as she shook her head, then peered into the camera, “it’s too late now.”

“No, it’s not.” He could see the camera mounted on the screen itself and took several steps back across the room to be able to face her more directly. “It’s not too late.”

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m on a plane.” She closed her eyes on the screen and frowned, “I’m lost, lost in the sky and no-one can hear me.”

“Open your eyes,” he implored, “I’m here. You’re not lost any more. Now, you… you just,” he faltered, then continued, “you just went the wrong way last time: that’s all. This time, get it right. Tell me how to save them. Eurus: Help me save John and Mycroft.” He choked on a slurry of coagulating blood and saliva, coughed and weakly spat onto the floor. In a way, he was drowning as surely as his brother. He looked back to the screen, and this time simply said, “Please.”

The door to the cell gave a clunk as the locking mechanism was remotely disengaged and the video screen went dark.

What now? It was clearly an invitation. The governor’s office, he decided, to see her face to face. With one hand trailing along the wall, compensating for unsteady legs, he made his way out of the cell and towards the stairs.


	5. Flying

Sherlock was sweating heavily by the time he reached the top of the stairs. Through the glass wall he could see that Eurus was alone, watching a video feed of Mycroft and John. In fact, he hadn’t passed anyone else in the corridors, despite the fact that she obviously had guards to help set up their little ‘games.’

“Eurus.” It was almost impossible to speak now – the inexorable swelling strangling him as well as rendering him near-mute.

“What a funny little memory it was, Sherlock.” She looked up from the screen as he stepped further into the room, “You were upset … so you told yourself a better story. I never thought you would forget me entirely as well.” Sherlock took two steps closer and braced himself on the other side of the table. 

Seeing the question in his eyes, she continued, “Having no-one means having secrets, brother. I found an old well, covered over and forgotten. Victor was easy.” She gave a little nod, “I told him there was _pirate treasure_. Real treasure that he could bring to you. Oh, he always did things for you. He’d have climbed down there himself if you’d so much as asked.” 

“And you left him there?” He couldn’t finish as he wanted, _In the water… to drown?”_ but it was clearly implied.

“He couldn’t stand up forever.” Eurus tilted her head to one side and let her hair cascade over her cheek, “Deep waters, Sherlock, all your life. In all your dreams: deep waters.” She stood, abruptly, bare feet gripping the floor as she rocked forwards and back, “And now you’re asking me to save your _friends_. What if I don’t want to? You didn’t even bring me my hairband.”

“Please.”

“Please, what?” she asked, enjoying the pain it took him to speak. Enjoying the way fear was hovering around the edges of his eyes as each breath was incrementally harder than the last.

“Please, let them go, Eurus.” And with that he had her tell: a gaze that flicked down at something on the desk, and then back up to him. The words that he couldn’t speak were plain in the way the frown of pain between his eyes briefly relaxed before re-forming a moment later: So, you _can_ stop this.

She scoffed, both angry and pleased that he had spotted the action. “Of course I can stop this. Just here,” she indicated a simple remote control on the desk, “press this and they’re free. Well,” she cocked her head again, “if they’re smart enough to realize it. _That_ is up to them.

“This time,” he repeated the words that had got his cell opened, “get it right.”

Eurus traced one bare foot in a slow arc across the floor, then the other. “I’m in a plane, and I’m going to crash.” She swayed on her feet as if riding the waves they could see through the window. “And you’re going to save me.” 

Continuing to trace one foot then the other along the floor as she swayed, she carried on, “I never thanked you for the chips.”

It was too hard to speak now. Sherlock gave a little stiff-necked nod in reply, trying not to increase the pain. Eurus was like trying to deduce Irene Adler – when he looked at her the air was simply blank. When he looked in her eyes he forgot what he was trying to do.

“You were different than I thought you’d be.” She’d come around the table and took hold of the front of his jacket, forcing him forwards and down to her eye level, “Nicer.”

Her lips closed over his and it felt like being struck by lightening with a thunderous _WRONG_ echoing in his ears. It was the kiss of life, Sherlock realized, as he felt a shock of pain and air forcing itself into his lungs. The grey at the edge of his vision receded slightly: adrenaline, he realized, it was enough of a shock to actually help him breathe. She released him and he scrabbled backwards until he hit the glass wall.

Eurus laughed, “You’re never under-clichéd, are you, brother?” She continued her side-to-side swaying, like a snake preparing to strike again, “I told John Watson we spent a night together. That it was lovely. You should have seen his face: he made a _very_ funny face.” 

Sherlock felt something else tightening around his throat – some emotion he’d never named and kept tightly contained within his mind-palace had broken free.

Even her eyes were serpentine: fixed for far too long as she said, “I wondered if I could collect you too. We could have so much fun together. More fun than Jim Moriarty, but…” She leaned in close again and he twisted his face sideways, out of reach, “For some reason you’ve become determined to be a _good_ man. How did that happen?”

The answer was so obvious Sherlock didn’t even have to think about it anymore, however absurd he’d have found it when he first met John Watson. The first try he only made a croaking noise. The second try he managed to take a deeper breathe and get out, “Friends”

Her tone was even, but some suppressed emotion crackled between them. “I never had a friend Sherlock. I had no-one.” 

Sherlock could see now: see how this was going to end. His eyes widened and he held up a forestalling hand even as she leaned in and whispered, “Watch me _fly_ , Sherlock!”

The word _no_ got stuck somewhere and Sherlock grabbed for her instead. His fingers combed uselessly through the ends of her hair as she was already in motion, stepping back, spinning away. Laughing as she called back over her shoulder more loudly, “Watch me fly!”

Sherlock took a step after her, but as soon as his back left the wall his knees sagged. He only barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the table as she opened the door to the deck.

The wind caught her gown, making it billow around her as she ran to the edge of the balcony and climbed onto the wall, standing on the railing. Eurus raised her arms as the wind caught her hair and whipped white fabric around her. Silhouetted against the storm, she looked like some kind of terrible avenging angel.

Then she jumped.

Eurus hung in the air for a moment, then the east wind caught her and she disappeared from view.

He’d had a sister for 48 hours – been an older brother for 48 hours - and been powerless to stop her. How Mycroft had survived this for three decades was beyond him. Sherlock had wanted to bring her home, imagined that he _could_ bring her home. 

How he thought he could succeed where Mycroft had failed for years was beyond him.

There was blood crusted on his hands. He spread his fingers on the table, bracing himself as he regarded them. Mycroft and John, he reminded himself. Mycroft and John were still alive, and needed his help. Sherlock slowly worked his way around the table, collapsing into the governor’s chair with a muffled groan. The remote control was simple – just a single button. Unused, purchased recently from an electronics supplier, perhaps configured by Eurus herself: what it could do was unknowable.

He reached out and picked it up, turned it over in his hand. No clues. Nothing. It could do anything. On the video screen another wave nearly broke over Mycroft’s head. Time was out. 

Sherlock pressed the button, then sank back into the chair to watch what he had just done.


	6. Stayin’ Alive

John curled around himself, clutching his knees to his chest against the wind and rain. Mycroft was still conscious, keeping his head above water as best as he could – for how much longer John wasn’t sure.

Suddenly, just audible over the wind… music: instrumental, unmistakable. John’s head snapped around, looking for a figure in a Westwood suit as the opening strains of the lyrics carried out over the waves, _“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk. I'm a woman's man: no time to talk...”_

Stayin’ Alive.

Abruptly, the music stopped. There was no reaction from Mycroft in the water. Could he not hear, or had John simply hallucinated the music?

No, John told himself, it had been real. But what did it mean? 

Sherlock had more than once told him that he saw, but did not observe. Now, he told himself: observe. Observe. The music had come from somewhere to his left, so John started there. Nothing immediately obvious, so John looked more closely: there were a few large, loose rocks. He rolled the nearest one over to reveal a few pebbles underneath, nothing more. Reaching further away, he rolled over another. This time, a small crab scuttled away, pincers waving angrily. The third was further away, almost out of reach. 

Stretching, pulling on the chain around his ankle as he did so and trying not to think of the effect on Mycroft, John managed to reach out just far enough to shove, hard, against the rock. It rolled far too easily, revealing a small speaker built into the side. There was something underneath: another rock, but not the same stone as the rest of the beach. Just managing to snag it with his fingertips, John’s heart skipped a beat when it rattled as he drew it towards himself.

Turning it upside down revealed a looping engraving: _Hide-A-Key_

No. 

It could not be this simple, but as John slid open the bottom of the fake rock two small keys fell out. When he tried the first key in the cuff on his ankle, it gave a click and fell open. 

John stared at the open cuff for a long moment, pulse roaring in his ears over the sound of the ocean.

_Mycroft_

“Mycroft!” John bellowed over the wind and waves, clutching the loose end of the chain in one hand. “Mycroft! Come to shore!”

It took three more calls before the sound crept through the walls Mycroft had erected around his mind. Bringing himself back to reality was unpleasant: his body was numb and clumsy, clearly in the process of shutting down.

At first, he didn’t understand what John Watson was trying to tell him. Come to shore? That was impossible. When the loose end of a chain was waved in the air, then cast into the water, he made no move. Until. Oh. He was free – he just had to get to shore. Untethered, the next wave lifted him, carrying him towards the shore, then sucking him back out again. He couldn’t… He _could_ do this, he told himself, mustering every ounce of determination and fury left in his body and weakly planting his feet against the pull out to sea, moving with the next wave towards the shore, then resisting the next outward tug.

As the water become more shallow he found it hard to stand, and when the next wave came he pitched over, forwards, scraping against barnacles as he rolled in the knee deep surf. Then a hand closed around his upper arm and he was unceremoniously dragged up, out of the water.

Mycroft blinked up at the briefly concerned, then rapidly hardening to _soldier_ face of John Watson. A dark sky replaced the other man and there was a tugging at his ankle before the sound of the chain being cast away.

“Come on.” John grabbed him by his arm again, hauling upwards. “Come on, Mycroft, you have to get up. We have to get you inside.”

Up? He wanted to say something about easier said then done, but then he was moving upwards, arm yanked over the other man’s shoulders. Tripping, bent legs awkwardly shuffling as he tried to assist the other man, Mycroft let himself be half-carried across the rocks to a metal door set into the rock. Reaching out with one hand, John found it unlocked. Mycroft wanted to warn him that there were twenty-two guards and security staff, and fifteen prisoners, including thee cannibals, somewhere in the facility, not to mention Eurus herself, but the blast of warm air distracted him.

“Where’s the clinic, Mycroft?” John gave him a shake to focus his attention, “where’s the medical clinic?”

“Up.” Mycroft managed to get out. “Third floor.”

Ignoring the aching of his bad shoulder, John manhandled the other man into a nearby lift and up to correct level. Fortunately, the infirmary was both obvious and well equipped. Barring the door behind them, John gently deposited Mycroft onto gurney. Indicating the wet clothing, he said, “Come on, Mycroft, take it off.” 

Mycroft blinked up at the other man, clearly not comprehending.

“Fuck, Mycroft, come on.” John was not going to lose another Holmes brother today. Quickly, he set to work stripping the other man, throwing aside the waistcoat and then the shirt, before urging the other man to lie back pulling off shoes, socks and trousers. “Sorry,” he offered the word in a compulsory fashion before hooking his fingers in the waistband of Mycroft’s pants and removing them as well.

Grabbing a clean sheet from the top of a nearby stack, John gently patted the other man dry, alarmed when Mycroft didn’t offer a snide word or attempt to swat his hands away. Pale at the best of times, Mycroft had turned a blue-grey and his muscles felt stiff under John’s hands. 

Once he had the other man mostly dry, John quickly covered him in a blanket before hurrying over to a large cabinet in search of supplies.

Returning, he gently raised the head of the bed and shone a penlight in Mycroft’s eyes, checked his breathing, measured his pulse… by every measure, Mycroft was not good.

“Can we…” Mycroft’s gaze tracked up to meet John’s and he managed to twitch a cheek in something half smile, half grimace, “can we skip the rectal thermometer?”

The question made John smile, despite the severity of the situation. He waved an electronic oral thermometer, “Your lucky day.” 

Despite the joke, Mycroft wasn’t quite with it, and John had to tap the tip of the thermometer against the other man’s lips to get him to open his mouth. In truth, it was clear the hypothermia was moderate to severe, so John hurried back to the supply cabinet and sink area, quickly gathering what he needed and warming a bag of saline.

The thermometer confirmed what John already knew. Grimly, he activated two heating packs, then lifted the blanket to tuck them at Mycroft’s groin.

Mycroft blinked, then slurred, “Not quite the swimming pool.”

Tucking another heating pack around the other man’s neck, John muttered, “I’d say we’re well past that, despite the theme music.” Methodically, clinically, he hung the IV bag, started a line of warmed saline, and fitted a nasal cannula with warm, humidified air – the clinic had obviously been prepared for hypothermia, which made sense given the location.

The sink area had included piped hot water and packets of hot chocolate, so as soon as all the medical equipment was in place he hurried back, preparing two cups and, as an afterthought, grabbed a straw for one of them.

“Mycroft, I need to see you cough and swallow. Okay? Do that for me. Cough and swallow.”

In his confusion, Mycroft had to hear the instruction twice more before he coughed, then swallowed.

“Okay, here,” John held out the cup, leaning down so that the other man could easily close his lips over the straw. It was the intimacy afforded to carers and their patients, and never had John imagined he’d be in a position to see Mycroft so vulnerable.

Despite the demonstration, Mycroft was only able to drink weakly. With his free hand, John brushed a lock of Mycroft’s thinning hair back from his forehead. The gesture seemed to encourage Mycroft to continue, and he managed a few more sips before pulling back.

“You need…”

Mycroft twisted his mouth away from the approaching straw, “No: you need to look after yourself.”

It was only then that John remembered just how cold he was. How numb his legs were under sodden clothes. Right. He set down the cup and turned back to the laundry pile. Grey sweatpants, too long for him, but the drawstring could at least keep them around his waist. A long sleeved top of a similar material was available as well. He stripped quickly, sure _this_ was the moment Eurus would burst through the door, but she didn’t, and he quickly forced himself to down the second cup of hot chocolate before turning back to Mycroft.

The other man had started to shiver slightly, which was encouraging, although it meant he had to gently hold Mycroft’s face in place to allow him to drink again from the straw. 

Fifteen minutes later John made a third cup of hot chocolate, and once he’d managed to get Mycroft to finish it as well he was gratified to see more lucidity in the other man’s eyes. “What do you think has happened?”

Mycroft shook his head, “We seem to be safe, for the moment, whether in actual fact or simply the starting point of another game I can’t say.” A more violent shiver rocked his frame and hot chocolate slopped onto the blanket.

“Easy,” John pulled the heating pad back into place around Mycroft’s neck, “Here. You may feel worse, but it’s a good sign that you’re feeling something.”

Mycroft snorted, frustrated with how his body had betrayed him. John caught the gesture and gave a wry smile, “Don’t _you_ dare get started on transport now either. It was bad enough to put up with it from your brother.”

Perhaps the hypothermia had weakened his self-control – Mycroft was surprised to find his eyes growing wet from the mention of Sherlock. The look on John’s face when he noticed was intolerable as well, and threatened to make actual tears spill out. To deflect, he offered, “They call me Antarctica – going to be hell for my reputation when it gets out my little sister tried to kill me with hypothermia.”

“Yes,” John allowed the distraction, “I can imagine you’ll want a new code name after this. What are you thinking? How about Sauron? The all-seeing eye seems appropriate given your little CCTV habit and it would instill the right amount of fear in the Whitehall minions.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “I’m afraid after my brother’s little shenanigans I’d prefer not to remind my subordinates of CCTV.”

“What did he do?”

“Told me to fuck off.”

“Well that’s nothing new.”

Mycroft sighed and admitted, “By spelling it out as we traced his path. I had Lady Smallwood there with me.” There was a peevishness in the tone that made John file away the thought of Lady Smallwood for a later inquiry.

Instead of commenting, John brandished the thermometer again, “It hasn’t been long, but shall we see if you’re on the right trajectory and then we can start thinking about what I can do to get us out of here?”

“Please.”

One floor above, Sherlock let his eyes slide closed for a moment, before forcing them open again. It was getting harder each time. The screen displayed an image of an empty beach and he focused his attention on that. On the fact that Mycroft had been at least mostly conscious when John had pulled him from the water. That there was still no sign of any guards, so somewhere below John could be taking care of Mycroft: warming him as quickly as he dared.

There was a little whistling noise when Sherlock breathed – his airway so narrow it was impossible to get quite enough oxygen into his system. With every breath it became harder to keep his eyes open, and as the minutes grew into an hour since John and Mycroft entered the building, an uncomfortable truth was dawning on Sherlock: No one was coming.

_They think I shot myself,_ Sherlock realised. _They think I’m dead_.

Another too small breath and the grey at the edge of his vision advanced even further. Panic and frustration rose in equal measure. No one was coming.


	7. Partitia No. 1

_No one was coming_.

Sherlock had no way of saving himself: he had to make them save him. Make _John_ save him – and he had to do it without being able to walk or speak. There was the PA system: he could send some sort of message, but, unless she had killed them all, there were likely many people still loyal to his sister in the building. They could even have fail-safe orders.

Morse code wouldn’t work. He had to do something that could be mistaken for static, simply noise in the system. 

Sherlock could only see in a tunnel now, but something occurred to him that made him pull the microphone closer and turn on the system. It just depended who was listening… and how well they remembered.

In the infirmary, John tucked fresh heating packs into Mycroft’s armpits then tugged the blanket up again so that the other man was merely a head emerging from the wrappings. Whatever product he normally used on his hair had washed away in the ocean, revealing that he was slightly more ginger than he normally let on.

Satisfied that he was doing as much as he could, John settled back into the bedside chair and asked, “How long will it be before someone checks on you?”

“Too long,” Mycroft was looking less grey than before, but was still obviously unwell. “Not until tomorrow, and whatever inquiry they make may not lead them to Sherrinford. Not many people could think to look here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking was effortful and he was so exhausted, then opened them and continued, “Sherrinford is supposed to make regular check-ins, however, I’m sure Eurus has already planned for that.

“Can we take a boat?”

“There isn’t one – for security. The sole purpose of this island is to keep people here.”

“And we need to leave.”

“Indeed.”

There was a burst of soft static over the PA system, as if someone had briefly intended to make an announcement, then thought better of it.

It wasn’t anything intelligible so far as John could tell, and very brief, so he went back to possible escape attempts… only to realize that Mycroft had his head tilted slightly to one side, looking puzzled.

“What?”

Mycroft licked his lips, then visibly forced his attention back to the room. “I believe I know what that was.” He considered for a moment – there was a sluggishness to his mental faculties that left him feeling distinctly and hatefully _unsure_. “Partitia number 1.”

“What?”

“Bach.”

“Oh.” In truth, John didn’t feel any further enlightened by knowing the composer, “And that means...?”

A little frown of frustration was knotting Mycroft’s brow. “I don’t know.” There were possibilities, of course. Eurus likely demanded every detail of Moriarty’s encounters with Sherlock, but why she presented the music in this fashion… It was strange, although everything with Eurus was strange. Perhaps there was a part of her that wanted to end this, and those simple beats were the offering.

John looked towards the ceiling as if he could see through the solid walls. “Where did that come from?”

“The control room… or the governor’s office.” The last place they had seen Eurus.

John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered, “If I leave you can’t get up to bar the door after me.”

Mycroft almost insisted that he certainly could, but the reality of the situation asserted itself before he could say a word. Instead, he offered, “Then you’ll have to be quick… and careful.”

John nodded. He looked around the room and spotted an aluminum crutch propped against one wall – it was better than nothing. A roll of plastic tubing went into the back pocket of his sweatpants as well, just in case he managed to incapacitate someone and needed to tie them up afterwards.

“John.” He looked up find Mycroft watching the preparations with a frown. The incapacitated man reiterated, “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful. One of us had to be.”

Mycroft nodded and then, just as John unbarred the door, offered, “I think she was jealous of Victor…” His eyes flicked down to the blanket covering him, then back up to John as he admitted, “as was I.”

Something in John’s face briefly softened, before he schooled his features: today he was a soldier.

 

******************************************************************

John crept up the stairs – the stillness in the facility was eerie. No sign of Eurus. No guards. No other prisoners for that matter. Mounting the top of the stairs outside the governor’s office… _No_. 

_No_. John felt his knees waver, treacherously, underneath him. Sherlock. No, he amended, Sherlock’s body, slumped in the governor’s chair. There was a mess of gore under the other man’s chin and a long bloodstain down the front of his shirt. The room rest of the room was empty, although John could see the door to the balcony was not quite pulled shut.

Solders, he reminded himself. Today he was a soldier… yet there was an unmistakable tremor in his hand as he pushed the door open. A soft noise made him freeze in the doorway: faint, almost a whistle. John felt like his blood flowed backwards for a moment, because he’d heard that sound before. Suddenly his nose was filled with the scent of blood and he could almost taste the dust and sand in his teeth. Afghanistan. Years ago, but suddenly now as well, with the sound of twenty year-old Euan Smith dying under John’s hands. A whistle of breath snuffed out in a shattered windpipe.

It was coming from Sherlock.

“Oh my God.” John couldn’t help but speak aloud, even as his feet refused to cross the floor. Sherlock took another weak, whistling breath. “Oh my _God_. Sherlock?”

The other man didn’t move, but a sliver of white appeared as his eyelids rose fractionally.

“Sherlock?” John hurried across the room and almost crashed to his knees in front of the chair. One hand gripped Sherlock’s wrist – a pulse, weak and thready – the other hand peeled Sherlock’s left eye open further. There was no further reaction from his eyes, a slight hitch in his next breath the only sign of some possible awareness. “Jesus, Sherlock.” John rocked back on his haunches, “Jesus.”

He reached out, tentatively, and gently tipped Sherlock’s head back to inspect his throat. It was bloody, yes, but there wasn’t the terrible wound he had expected… and there wasn’t an exit wound on Sherlock’s skull. “What…” He wondered, _What had happened?_

He reached up again, probing the wound and Sherlock finally reacted by pulling away weakly with a groan. 

“Sherlock!” John had his doctor’s voice in place again, “Sherlock: open your eyes!” He got a sluggish sliver of blue-green in return. Damn. Sherlock’s lips and nail beds were discoloured – he was cyanotic. It was his airway, John realised: Sherlock wasn’t getting enough air into his lungs. 

Shit. Sherlock had five and half inches in height on John, and the infirmary was a floor below. He didn’t even consider leaving the other man and returning with a medical bag. “Come on – let’s get you up.” 

Oh, he was heavy. John’s shoulders protested immediately as he levered the other man onto his back. Shuffling his feet, Eurus was forgotten as he spoke to his friend, “Easy now, just got to get you downstairs and then it will be fine. Not long, Sherlock. Not long now. Hang on, Sherlock. _Hang on_.” Despite huffing with exertion, he continued speaking softly all the way down to the infirmary.

The door was unlocked, just as he’d left it. “Please,” he whispered to himself as he opened the door, please don’t let Mycroft have been discovered.

“John?” Mycroft‘s eyes widened as the door opened, then, “ _John,”_ as Sherlock became visible over the man’s shoulders.

“He’s alive.” John huffed, now dragging Sherlock over to the gurney next to Mycroft’s.

“ _What!_ Mycroft straightened so abruptly what little colour had reappeared drained from his face immediately. Black spots danced in his vision and he had to sink back against the raised head of the bed.

“He’s alive.” Gracelessly, John flopped the other man onto a gurney, shoved him quickly into place and pressed a finger to Sherlock’s carotid artery. His eyes had closed again, but the thready pulse still fluttered under John’s fingertip.

“How?”

“I don’t know, Mycroft.” John carefully palpated around Sherlock’s trachea, feeling the deadly swelling. There was a wound, yes, and it looked like his jaw was broken, but not a handgun wound… unless… “It was a blank.”

“What?”

“Yes,” John was sure now, “He shot himself with a blank. Must have dropped his hand before he fired, or it would have killed him.”

“So if he had shot me…” Mycroft trailed off in horror: _we would both be fine_ went unsaid.

John nodded absently, attention focused on the patient instead. The airway was the priority. He grabbed a laryngoscope and took a breath to steady himself: he hadn’t done this in a long time… and given the swelling it was going to be anything but easy.

Slowly, slowly, he told himself, then… done. John pulled back, but Sherlock didn’t breathe. _Fuck_. He grabbed a bag and pumped three breaths, then disconnected the bag and waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds… Sherlock’s chest raised, and there was a smooth pull of air into the tube. John collapsed back onto a chair next to the bed in relief. His hands were shaking. Sherlock took another breath and John looked up to meet the gaze of a thoroughly rattled looking Mycroft.

Several more breaths and Sherlock’s colour was improving. John found some medical tape and managed to get the tube secured into place in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth just as there was a twitch of returning consciousness. 

John quickly buried a hand in Sherlock’s hair and bent down so his lips were near the other man’s ear. “Shhh, Sherlock. Don’t move. You’re intubated, but it’s all right. I’ve got you, Sherlock. Try to relax. Don’t move.” He kept up the repetitive words as he felt consciousness creep back into the body.

Finally, John felt Sherlock’s hand inch sideways and cover his own right hand where it was braced on the edge of the gurney. “Hey,” he combed the fingers of his left hand through Sherlock’s hair, just because he could, “Welcome back.”

Sherlock made a little hitching noise through the breathing tube and John hurried to stop him, “Don’t try to speak. Your throat was so swollen I had to intubate you.”

The hand on top of his gave a squeeze, but Sherlock made the noise again.

Oh, John realised, he’d felt the ring. “Mycroft is fine – he’s right here.”

From the other bed Mycroft called over, “I’m right here, Sherlock.”

Hearing his brother’s voice seemed to make Sherlock relax and take a slow, even breath.

John cradled the top of Sherlock’s head again with his palm, “That’s it. Slow and easy. You gave us quite a scare.”

A squeeze on his hand had John pull back to see a look in Sherlock’s eyes that seemed to confess, _I gave myself quite a scare too._

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he’d managed to convey, but some of the pinched worry evaporated from John Watson’s face where it hovered above him, and was replaced by something else entirely. Eurus’ words came back to him: _I told John Watson we spent a night together. That it was lovely. You should have seen his face: he made a very funny face._

Then the hand combed through his hair again and Sherlock let his eyes briefly close as the discomfort and pain was chased away.

Predictably, it was Mycroft that ruined it. “Where is Eurus, Sherlock?”

Sherlock raised his free hand off the bed, then let it fall back to the mattress.

John frowned, looked over to Mycroft, then back to Sherlock, “What?”

He repeated the gesture, but this time traced the path of rising to an apogee, then abruptly falling. 

John looked confused, but Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath. “John, what was the situation on the balcony of the governor’s office?”

“The door wasn’t quite…” Oh. John looked back down at Sherlock. “Is she dead?”

He gave a slow blink in reply.

John looked over at Mycroft, “What does a blink mean?”

“Fast or slow?”

“Slow.”

“Most probably”

Sherlock gave an eye-roll, _Obviously_.

_So_ , Mycroft breathed, _after all these years his sister was dead_. He shivered and ducked his chin sideways until his nose touched the heating pack along his collarbone. _New possibilities. There must be an advantage for them now that Eurus was gone…_ Emerging from his thoughts some moments later he found that Dr. Watson had gone back to carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, murmuring words that were not quite audible even on the next bed over. “There is a possibility.”

John looked up quickly, “What?”

“The usual channels are too risky to try until we know the extent of her influence. If the office is clear we might be able to get a message to a private number.”

Fine, but the only number John thought he might remotely know from memory was Harry, and that was not going to be helpful. “And you know how to contact someone who will be able to help us?”

Mycroft chewed the inside of his lip, thinking, “They could be watching Anthea, if Eurus’ little web extends outside these walls, but…” He focused his increasingly frayed nerves on the image of a business card tossed onto his diary, “I believe I know a number that could be most effective.” 

“I’ll go. What message to what number?” 

The unquestioning loyalty of John Watson was something Mycroft was more grateful for than he’d ever let on. “Is there a pen?” There was indeed a pen on the nurse’s desk, and a pad of paper. Mycroft’s fingers were clumsier than he’d expected and his usual script was more of a scrawl. Short message, he told himself. Something short enough that it just might fly under the radar of Sherrinford’s security, if anyone was watching. He wrote the number first, then, carefully, _“Sherrinford compromised. On site. Top levels currently clear. Request extract and contain. MH.”_ After a moment he crossed off “on site” – that was obvious. He considered a request for haste, but the implications of “currently” would not be lost on her either. She was rather magnificent after all.

John was perched on the edge of Sherlock’s bed where he could watch both brothers. Mycroft handed him the note with the instruction, “No chit-chat even if she wants to.”

John felt Sherlock’s hand give a squeeze of _she!_ , but ignored it and said, “Okay: I’ll be back soon.” He tugged his hand free and made for the door, “Sit tight.”

Mycroft snorted. “We can do little else.” As the door closed for a second time behind the doctor, he allowed himself the rare luxury of hope.


	8. The Cavalry

The governor’s phone worked, as did John’s best guess to dial _9_ for an external line. Four rings and there was a soft click as the connection was made, “ _Hello?_ ” A feminine voice: confident, mature, posh accent evident from just one word. _Who are you and how did you get this number?_ clearly implied.

John rattled off Mycroft’s message without preamble, “Sherrinford compromised. Top levels currently clear. Request extract and contain. M. H.,” then hung up, immediately. There was still no sign of anyone else, but John didn’t dare test out trying to access a security feed to the other levels. The office looked just as he’d left it earlier – balcony door not quite properly shut. Morbid curiosity took hold and he made his way outside, shivering when the wind caught his still slightly damp hair. The waves were crashing onto rocks below and it was gently raining.

For a moment John thought he caught a glimpse of a white hospital gown before it was revealed to be nothing more than the froth of a wave. He shivered again and forced himself away from the precipice. As much as he wanted to be able to deliver some certainty to the others, he knew he had to hurry back to the infirmary to bar the door again.

When John returned the sight that greeting him made him pause for a second on the threshold of the room: Mycroft had shuffled towards the edge of his gurney and managed to reach one arm over to his brother before finally falling victim to exhaustion. Sherlock appeared to be faring better now: also sound asleep under his brother’s hand.

A moment of fear ran through John – he hadn’t been gentle hauling Mycroft out of the sea and into the infirmary. Circum-rescue collapse was something he should have been more aware of. Quickly crossing the room, he felt a wave of relief when a quick check revealed that Mycroft’s vitals were continuing to improve. Exhaustion it was then – and no surprise really. The other man didn’t stir even when John poked the thermometer into his mouth. 

Sherlock, however, did notice when John brushed against the bed, sluggishly forcing his eyes to half-mast. 

“Hey.” John sat down again next to the bed and continued, “I got Mycroft’s message out. All we can do now is wait.” 

Sherlock’s pupils moved towards John, even though his eyes were not fully open.

“I don’t know about you, but I am ready to get out of here. Too bad Baker Street is still a tip. I hope Mycroft put Mrs. Hudson up in a good hotel: she deserves some room service and a posh bathrobe to steal.” Sherlock’s lip twitched around the tube.

John smiled at the gesture and buried his hand back in Sherlock’s hair, feeling a lightening even under the circumstances when the other man’s eyes slipped shut again. He gently raked his fingers through the unruly, sweaty curls and Sherlock took a slow, deep breath in response. 

Emboldened by the response, John kept up a gentle stroking. It was what he should have done in the hospital, when Sherlock had come so close to becoming a murder victim himself. He’d heard the audio recording – Lestrade had made sure of it. John closed his eyes and was suddenly back in an interview room at NSY for the second time, split skin on his knuckles itching as Sherlock’s weak voice poured out of the recorder, “ _I’m ... scared of dying. I don’t want to die. I don’t ..._ ”

There was bile in his mouth as John came back to the present. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed and he appeared to be asleep again. The gold of Mycroft’s ring glinted amongst Sherlock’s messy curls, prompting him to look over to the other man.

Mycroft’s colour was improving, but he still looked distinctly waxen as he slept. How old had he been, John thought, when he was let in on the family secret. And not just let in on it, but entrusted with it by his own uncle.

John’s stomach grumbled – the hot chocolate had been too little, too long ago. He supposed there was likely to be more food items in the little sink and kitchen area, but his hand felt so right where it was, tangled in Sherlock’s hair, that he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace.

In the other bed Mycroft gave a soft snore, then shifted, weakly, into a more comfortable position.

Please, thought John, please let the rescue come quickly…

 

******************************************************************

And come it did. John was startled awake several hours later by several dull thumps that shook the floor. Dazed, he lifted his face from where it had fallen onto Sherlock’s gurney, wincing at the fluorescent lighting as he blinked stickiness out of his eyes. Sherlock didn’t stir, but Mycroft had also snapped awake.

John’s first reaction was that something very bad was happening – perhaps Eurus’ guards were preparing to storm the infirmary. 

Mycroft however tilted his head to one side, listening intently as there were two more thumps, then silence. After another moment, tension seemed to evaporate and he gave a weak smile. “The cavalry, I believe. Would you be so good as to fetch me another pair of those trousers so I can face them in more than a sheet? That particular attire is more my brother’s domain.”

Fortunately for both of them, Mycroft had enough strength back to pull on the clothing himself. A few minutes later there was a tapping on the door – Mycroft must have recognized it, because he gave John a nod to unbar the door.

Four armed men burst into the room as soon as the door could be opened. It only took them a second to take in the entire scene and then the lead lowered his weapon. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes.” Somehow Mycroft managed to get his aloofness back in place even sitting on a gurney in ill-fitting athletic wear.

“Top levels secure, sir. We’re sweeping the lower levels now. Is there anything we should be aware of?”

“Target zero may be neutralized.” If you didn’t know Mycroft, you wouldn’t see the tiniest crack in the veneer that John perceived in the slight waver when he continued, “Drowning, but that is unconfirmed.”

The man merely nodded, completely un-phased, “The helicopter for you will be landing shortly. How many of you are mobile?”

“I am.” Mycroft was damned if he was going to be carried out of Sherrinford. He ignored John’s skeptical eyebrow and continued, “As is Dr. Watson. Sherlock will need to be stretchered.” 

The other men were already fanning out, one locating a spine board while another approached Sherlock. Before John could protest, they surrounded the detective and carefully, efficiently, rolled the detective up and then onto the board. 

Alarmingly, Sherlock didn’t appear to wake-up with the movement. One of their rescuers bent down with clearly practiced ease and, as the others strapped the detective in place, quickly checked vital signs before pronouncing, “Stable.”

Suppressing his desire to stay close to the detective, John offered an arm to Mycroft instead. Despite his assurances, the elder Holmes leaned heavily on John as they followed the stretcher out onto the roof. True to the soldier’s word a sleek black helicopter dipped down and landed once they were visible. They hung back until the rotors slowed, then followed as two doors opened in the side and the men carrying Sherlock hurried forward to load the incapacitated man into the rear compartment. 

John helped Mycroft over to the helicopter, both so focused on managing the clamber onboard that they didn’t notice who was already there until they were already seated across from…

She’d come in person. Mycroft didn’t know what to make of that. He blinked at the vision in front of him, “Lady Smallwood.” Any further comment was forestalled by surprise as his gaze flicked down and back up her attire: hair tied back, fitted navy jumper, dark trousers, and _boots_.

“I do have a first name, Mycroft. Under the circumstances I think you’re allowed to use it.” It was then John noticed she had a gun casually held in her right hand. “Langdale has been briefed. We decided I should ask you a few questions before you’re released.” One of the soldiers leaned into the helicopter and offered a pair of restraints. “Please take the handcuffs, Dr. Watson, and secure Mycroft.” 

John complied, with an apologetic frown to the other man as he did so.

“And now, Mycroft, please secure Dr. Watson.”

She waited until they were both cuffed, then repositioned the gun so it was facing them in equal measure. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you came here?”

There was a weariness evident in Mycroft’s voice, but an undertone of strength nonetheless as he said, “We had evidence to suggest Sherrinford was no longer secure. That Eurus herself might have somehow been able to leave at will…”

She cut him off, “Let me re-phrase that: why did you come here _alone_? Imagine my surprise when I discovered your mobile in a heavily guarded but empty hospital room.”

Mycroft licked his lips and tried again, “I was aware of what Eurus is capable of in terms of persuasion. If she had been leaving, she would have needed assistance. High-level assistance.” As Mycroft spoke, John sensed the logical trap he had to avoid. “I knew it didn’t come from me, and knew that the element of surprise was needed to ascertain what was occurring. As such, everyone else had to believe I was incapacitated.”

She leaned into the space between their seats, sliding the gun along her thigh towards the men as she did so, “And how do you know I’m not compromised?”

Even as John stiffened, Mycroft smiled. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she had been MI6, before she’d risen above it.

She saw the smile, of course, and responded, “I could shoot you right now, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I count on it.” In his peripheral vision he could sense John giving him a look of, _are you crazy_? They stared at each other, she doing her own version of deducing.

Whatever she saw seemed to be reassuring, as the gun slowly turned to point at the floor. “Then it’s a good thing today is not the day for that.”

She clicked the safety back on and John huffed a breath of sarcastic relief, “Well thank God for that.”

She nodded to the waiting soldier and in return he slammed the door shut. There was a whine as the rotors powered up, which turned into a dull roar as they lifted off the roof. It was only when they entered the low clouds and she tossed over the keys to the restraints that John allowed himself to relax.

John quickly uncuffed them both. Lady Smallwood had pulled on a set of green headphones and appeared to be texting someone an update from her mobile, but neither of the men had been offered any form of communication. He supposed the medic was in the rear compartment with Sherlock, and wished he was there as well. Glancing to the side revealed that Mycroft had closed his eyes and seemed to be losing the battle against exhaustion.

Now that the adrenaline was fully wearing off John could feel all the aches and bruises from his flight through the window at Baker Street. Perhaps Mycroft had the right idea, he thought, as he finally allowed his own eyes to close as well.

******************************************************************

Sherlock took a sip of tea, wincing as the hot liquid touched the still-healing split on his upper lip. He swallowed and regarded John over the rim of his mug and confessed, “Still a bit troubled by the daughter. “ He frowned at the thought, “Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.” 

John watched his friend thinking, trying not to see the cuts and bruising across the other man’s face. He heard his own voice without realizing his mouth was moving, “But she wasn’t ever here?”

“Interesting, isn’t it? I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything.” Sherlock sniffed, and looked down into his mug of tea. Somehow, when he said it aloud it sounded less impressive and more fanciful.

“So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn’t know?” His words seemed to come from somewhere else, but Sherlock heard them nonetheless.

“Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” The thought made an absent smile come over Sherlock’s features, “I’m intrigued.” It made him look younger, despite the scruffy facial hair.

“Oh, I know you are,” John couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice, despite the subject, “which is why we’re all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties.”

“I thought we were just hanging out.” If anything, the slight smile settled more firmly on Sherlock’s features, although the effect was somewhat diminished by his bloodshot eye. As he blinked, a little drop of blood seemed to appear in the corner of it, as if a red tear was waiting to fall.

At some level John knew he shouldn’t leave, but Molly was only twenty minutes away and the wounds on Sherlock’s face were frankly off-putting. It was too stark a reminder of his near-failure to do the right thing. The split on Sherlock’s lip seemed to be widening as well. “On that note – Molly will be by shortly. Can you mind yourself for a few minutes? I need to collect Rosie on the way home.” Sherlock’s smile evaporated.

“Of course.” The detective tried to look encouraging and at ease, but his normal mastery of pretense failed and it came out as a grimace instead. “Sorry, I didn’t think. Go on.” Relieved, John hastened to leave and was almost at the door when Sherlock asked after him, “Are you okay?”

Okay was so far removed from _anything_ he was feeling John couldn’t help but bark out a humourless laugh, “No, no, I’m not okay. I’m never going to be okay.” He took a breath to steady himself and continued, “but we’ll just have to accept that: It is what it is; and what it is… is shit.”

Sherlock’s gaze flitted down and away, but he nodded. The red tear slowly tracked its way down the side of his nose. John’s wife, his dead wife, admonished him gently from across the room in a rebuke only he could hear, “John, do better.”

Taking a slow breath, and a moment to gather himself, John tried again, “You didn’t kill Mary.” The way Sherlock’s eyes snapped back up and widened assured John this was the right thing to do. “Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No-one made her do it. No-one could ever make her do anything.” He was rambling now, but his phantom Mary was smiling, encouragingly, “but the point is: you did not kill her.” 

Sherlock’s forehead creased with a small frown as he admitted, “In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend.”

John shrugged and offered the only words he could, “It is what it is.” Sherlock gave a nod in return, and something about the gesture made John confess in a rush of weakness, “She was wrong about me.” 

“Mary? How so?”

“She thought that if you put yourself in harm’s way I’d ... I’d rescue you or something. But I didn’t-- not ’til she told me to.” He took a deep breath, almost gasping. “And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was.” Something was clawing its way up John’s throat as he spoke, threating to suffocate him under the weight of the secret.

“Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice.” Sherlock had his old self-assurance back, even if he was so spectacularly _WRONG_ as he said, “I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say...”

John couldn’t bear it, so he said the one thing guaranteed to make Sherlock shut-up: “I cheated on her.” It worked. “No clever comeback?” He could see her again, clearly, just to the side of Sherlock’s chair. “I cheated on you, Mary. There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me.” Sherlock seemed to have vanished from the room. “That’s all it was; it was a smile. We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.”

His eyes were wet. John swiped at them with the back of a hand and forced himself to continue, “That’s all it was, just texting…. But I wanted more. And d’you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. That’s the whole point.” His phantom’s eyes were full of tears, and she had never looked so lovely. There was only one more thing to say, so he forced himself to say it, “Who you thought I was... is the man who I want to be.”

She was crying now, but smiling through the tears as she said, “Well, then, John Watson: Get the hell on with it.”

Oh, God. He couldn’t see her anymore – vision too blurred by tears. From a distance, he heard Sherlock’s voice, “It’s okay.”

John felt Sherlock’s arms encircle him, hesitantly, and protested in return, “It’s not okay.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, holding him more firmly. There was one hand gripping his shoulder, and another cradling the back of his neck. “But it is what it is.”

This time, John was acutely aware of Sherlock’s cheek resting against the top of his head. The smell of withdrawal sweat and expensive soap and something more naturally _Sherlock_. He clung to the other man, soiling the front of an expensive shirt and second-best dressing gown, closing his eyes and simply taking what comfort he could from the embrace. There was a thud as if the floor dropped and John’s eyes flew open. What? He was in the helicopter, he realized, with Mycroft still asleep on one side and Lady Smallwood regarding him with the slightest of smiles.

Oh. _Oh_. His eyes were damp, John realized, and God only knew what noises he might have made. Lady Smallwood pointedly looked away, giving him a moment to collect himself. Scrubbing hands over his face seemed to help, as did smoothing back his hair. That done, he looked at the window and realized what the thump had been: they had landed.

From the skyline he could see that it was London, but nighttime now. How long he had slept wasn’t clear. There was a clatter of noise from the rear compartment, then Sherlock was carried past on a stretcher. John reached for the door, only for Lady Smallwood to stop him.

“We have the best maxillofacial surgeon in London on standby. He’ll be well looked after. You and Mycroft need rest. We’ll bring him to you as soon as he is stable.”

John almost protested, but there was something in her manner that indicated this was in no way up for discussion. While he vacillated, the rotors powered up, rendering conversation impossible. There was a gentle lurch as they lifted off again, no doubt flying to another secret location.


	9. The Three Detectives

Sherlock crossed his arms in a gesture that was more hugging himself than defiant and leaned against the wood-paneled wall. “I don’t want to die.” A tear welled up in his bloodshot eye and rolled down his cheek as he admitted, “I’m scared of dying.”

“Bo-ring!” Sherlock, another Sherlock, swirled his dressing gown dramatically and collapsed into Mycroft’s antique chair. He kicked his legs over the arm and plucked at the strings of his violin. “Why are we sitting around when the game is _on_?”

There was a scraping sound as a third Sherlock slid slowly down the wall and slumped on the floor. He tugged his sleeve down and blinked up at the other two, crossly, “I don’t know why you care about that. Why can’t you leave me in peace?”

John woke with a start, tangled in slippery high-threadcount sheets. There was no Sherlock against the wall. No Sherlock perched on the chair across the bedroom. No Sherlock slumped on the floor. There wasn’t a sound anywhere in the house, for that matter. A glow around the edges of the curtains suggested it was late in the morning, as did a dull ache in his stomach. John threw back the covers and sat up to find a pair of slippers that he couldn’t recall seeing. They were his size, of course, as were the soft pajamas that had been folded on the bed when he’d stumbled into the room the night before. Collecting a dark green dressing gown that was waiting invitingly in the wardrobe he padded down the carpeted hallway in search of a late breakfast.

Industrial was the only word John could think of to describe the kitchen. Industrial, and thoroughly out of keeping with the rest of the house. There were several takeaway menus stuck to the stainless steel fridge and John chuckled to see Mycroft’s taste in food – perhaps he had some equivalent to Sherlock’s “bottom third of the door handle” metric for judging restaurant quality. The fridge was full. Suspiciously full – it all looked freshly stocked. If Mycroft subsisted on takeaways it could explain the ongoing battle with his waistline. It was probably the kindness of Lady Smallwood that let them be released to Mycroft’s house with firm instructions not to leave the premises. If not for that, a bunker somewhere under Whitehall would probably have been their next destination after dropping Sherlock off at the hospital.

John selected a pot of yoghurt and flicked the kettle on, absently taking a bite as he waited for the water to boil. Copies of several newspapers had been left suggestively on the counter so he helped himself to one – his mobile had yet to reappear. There were shuffling footsteps from the hallway and he turned, expecting to find Mycroft finally awake as well.

This is it, thought John, I’ve finally lost my mind. The Holmes brothers have _finally_ made me lose my mind.

“I don’t want to die.” It was the Sherlock from his dreams – the one with the injuries from being hit and kicked in the morgue.

Despite himself, John couldn’t keep from answering, “I know you don’t.” He blinked and Sherlock vanished, leaving him to make a cup of tea in peace. The house was still quiet, so John finished the yoghurt and carried the tea back upstairs. The door to the master bedroom was still closed so he carried on to the guest bedroom with the paper. 

He made it three pages into the news before sensing that they were back: Sherlock against the wall, Sherlock in the chair, and Sherlock on the floor. He managed another page and a half before the twanging of an impatiently plucked violin string intruded into his reading.

The paper crumped as John admitted defeat and dropped it into his lap. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t be here unless you needed me” _The game is on_ Sherlock plucked another string and tilted his head towards the other two, “I don’t know about them though. Very strange, you finally start assembling a mind palace and fill it with us.”

“Is that what this is? Shouldn’t there be…” John frowned, “Rooms or walls or something?”

_Sherlock on the floor_ shrugged, “You have to start somewhere. Did you expect to have a good one right away?”

_Sherlock against the wall_ blinked and a bloody tear rolled down his cheek as he said, “I don’t want to die.” It seemed to be all he ever said.

The Sherlock with the violin seemed the most helpful, so John addressed him directly, “Why do you think I need you?”

“Wrong!” The violin twanged a discordant note. “The question is why do _you_ think you need us? This is _your_ mind palace.”

“I don’t know!” And he didn’t, either. Eurus was gone. They’d had another narrow escape. Mycroft was sleeping somewhere nearby. Sherlock was safely in hospital, with surgeons hand selected by Lady Smallwood. 

“Then stop wasting my time!” The violin twanged again and the Sherlock holding it vanished.

The Sherlock on the floor – clearly high as a kite— gave John a reproachful look, “You left me.”

“What?”

“You left me alone.”

“In Sherrinford? Eurus knocked us out too, you know that. She dried to drown Mycroft and me. We thought you had shot yourself until I found you in the director’s office.”

Sherlock shook his head at the protest. “Before.”

“Before?” Cases flicked through John’s mind, but each one seemed to feature him coming to Sherlock’s rescue or by the other man’s side. Until, “Do you mean Culverton Smith?”

Sherlock on the floor shook his head again, “Before.”

Before… John frowned as he tried to think back further. “Do you mean…” Something in the Sherlock’s eyes told John he had it right, and he felt anger welling up despite the years. “No. No, no, no: you left me, Sherlock. You left me for _two years_.”

“I had to keep you safe.”

“You just about killed me, Sherlock.” The detective ducked his head in response and worried the cuff of his dress shirt sleeve. It was too much of a reminder of finding Sherlock on a grimy mattress in east London. “Stop it. You’re better than that, now.”

Sherlock looked up again and brushed sweaty curls back from his forehead as he asserted, “Only because of you.”

That… John didn’t know what to say to that, even if the Sherlock was a figment of his own imagination. The newspaper headlines offered a minor distraction and when John looked up again the Sherlock he’d been speaking with was gone.

Only the Sherlock leaning against the wall remained, watching the other man through his mismatched eyes.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Sherlock. You’re my best mate, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, but he didn’t look very happy about it.”

“You were the best man at my wedding – you’re Rosie’s godfather.” Of course, there was Rosie now to think of as well.

Sherlock nodded again and affirmed, “I don’t want to die.”

A comment died on John’s tongue as he remembered the younger Sherlock who had appeared willing to take a cabbie’s pill simply to prove his own smarts. To win the game. “You’ve changed,” John agreed. “We both have.” Of course, it wasn’t as simple as the understatement implied: there was Rosie now, a dead wife, a dead sister…

“I’m scared…” John nodded, impatiently, knowing that the fear of dying would be repeated again, but instead, Sherlock met his eyes and said, “I love you.”

That was… unexpected. John blinked and the Sherlock vanished, but his words lingered. _I love you_. It was absolutely preposterous. A product of the stress of the last days. The last months. 

And yet… John remembered how Sherlock’s brain had seemed to come to a halt when he’d asked the detective to be his best man. How the detective had thrown himself into ensuring the wedding would be perfect. And, finally, how he had tried to save Mary time and again.

_I love you_.

John closed his eyes. Oh God, he thought.


	10. Limbo

_Condylar fracture – 2 weeks intermaxillary fixation._ John looked up from the medical records to meet Mycroft’s expression of horror on the other side of the bed. They had wired his jaw shut. Sherlock was sleeping peacefully in yet another guest bedroom, but was unlikely to remain a good patient when he woke up to this latest indignity. 

“Will he…” Mycroft trailed off and worried his lip between his teeth, and only then did John realize that he’d snatched up the medical notes before the other man could have a look.

He scanned them again, noting the long-term prognosis and prescription for a new scar-prevention compound he hadn’t been aware was available on their side of the Atlantic. The detective might look like some sort of mummy with a compression bandage applied to his throat and chin, but the reality was not so bad. “He’ll be fine. There may be some scarring, but they’re doing everything to keep it to a minimum. There’s some new wonderdrug drug under that,” John indicated the wrapping with a wave of his hand and Mycroft visibly relaxed, “they want his jaw stabilized for the next two weeks, but that’s about the worst of it. He’ll be sore at first, though, as they’re keeping him off the opioids.”

Mycroft relaxed even more at that, and offered a smile. “Well then, shall we enjoy our peace while we have it?”

Evidently Mycroft was making the same assumption regarding the nature of their patient. John couldn’t help but smile back and ask, “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner, I think.” The sun was indeed low in the sky. Both men had been napping when Sherlock was brought home by ambulance, and neither had eaten much since Sherrinford. Their sleep rhythms were sure to be troubled over the coming days. Mycroft led the way downstairs and appeared completely unsurprised by the bounty in his fridge. Waving the doctor into a chair, he rummaged in the fridge and then began pulling pots, pans and spices out with practiced ease.

Sensing the doctor’s surprise, Mycroft responded without even turning to look, “I do know how to cook, John. I just don’t have a chance to do it very often.” Something about the way he held the knife as he rapidly chopped suggested that ‘knowing’ was a massive understatement. There was the scent of onions, then a sizzling as Mycroft browned something in a pan. He vanished from the room, then returned carrying a bottle of red wine. “I’m afraid I don’t really keep cooking wine around, so we’ll have to do with the good stuff.”

And good it was. John took another appreciative swallow from the glass Mycroft has handed him, the other man once again fully engrossed in cooking. As the smells from the stove grew better and better John’s stomach began grumbling along with the bubbling pot.

What finally hit the table was pasta with a meat sauce – not like anything John would refer to as spag bol. They ate ravenously, the thought of conversation only coming to mind once he’d started on his second helping. Mycroft was still focused on eating, but there was something pinched about his features.

“Searching for an opening, John offered, “You once said that Sherlock has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet elects to be a detective.”

Mycroft paused with his fork hanging in midair. “I’m sorry?”

“You asked me what we might deduce about his heart.”

The fork returned to the plate – bite of food forgotten. “Did I now?” Something about the tone of voice told John the question wasn’t directed at him, but was in fact Mycroft remembering and reflecting on his own intentions. “When I said every choice he made was governed by his memory of Eurus, I meant it.” Mycroft took a sip of wine that was more of a gulp, and continued, “The first case, the case he couldn’t solve, when we realized he couldn’t remember Victor our first reaction was, shamefully, relief. Arrogant boy that I was I even hoped that he could be _my_ friend now. My brother. What a calculating creature I was, even then.” 

The bitter accusation in Mycroft’s tone told John these were familiar words of self-admonishment. Carefully, the doctor ventured in return, “Children are allowed to be lonely… and wish for things to be different.”

Mycroft looked up sharply, as if caught by surprise. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, seemingly lost for words until he said, “We thought it could be for the best, until we realized the little boy who re-wrote history re-wrote himself as well.”

The silence stretched again, although Mycroft made no move to resume eating. Wanting to know more, needing to know more, John prompted, “You lived in a different house than the one I visited…”

“Musgrave. Yes. I almost had it repaired some years ago, when Sherlock was on one of his binges. It was going to cost a fortune…” He gave a wry smile, “but I could just about afford it. It was beautiful, John.” The faintest of smiles alighted on Mycroft’s face as he remembered, “Out in the countryside – Suffolk, actually. We had a forest of our very own, and it bordered a lake. Most of all, I suppose, we were happy there. If it had just been the two of us it would have been idyllic. I was what they sometimes refer to as an ‘unfortunate child’ – a little too smart, unflattering combination of features from the two sides of he family, and too chubby. Sherlock, however, was a beautiful child – elfin by comparison. I used to wonder what the little boy would have grown in to, if not for Victor’s murder.”

“When he re-wrote himself?”

“Emotion. Sentiment. Love. He purged it all and built a fortress in his mind, then found himself so craving stimulation in his twenties that he poured it directly into his veins.” The little creases of stress had reappeared on Mycroft’s forehead.

John was well aware the calculated relapses he had seen, totted up in spidery handwriting on scraps of paper, must not have been anything compared to what Mycroft had dealt with before.

The silence was broken by a chime from the monitoring system linked to the guest rooms upstairs: Sherlock was awake. There was a loud scrape as they both pushed their chairs back, remains of the meal forgotten.

************************************************************************

Sherlock could speak, but it was painful, slurred and indistinct. With his jaw wired shut even a straightforward request required two to three repetitions and even then still might not be clear. If speaking was often too slow for him writing out longer sentences was intolerable. There was a detritus of little crumpled up notes on the floor, most of them having been thrown at John in exasperation at some point. Mycroft had retreated to his office, although as they still had limited contact with the outside world it was unclear what he was actually doing in there most of the day. 

A routine of sorts had developed, where John, Sherlock and Mycroft would meet in the library in the evening. John and Mycroft would sit in high backed chairs, drinking scotch and talking, while Sherlock would collapse onto a sofa and feign disinterest in their conversation. Both men knew his tells, of course: a hitched breath when Mycroft mentioned something about Musgrave, or a flicker of eyelid when John recounted an anecdote about Afghanistan.

They were thirteen days into their confinement. John had been maintaining his sanity by working his way through Mycroft’s library and film collection, in between caring for Sherlock. A thick stack of cold cases from sources unknown had kept the detective largely occupied, except when frustration boiled over at being unable to speak clearly or how the lack of access to the internet slowed research for his cases. It had been a particularly vexing day, as the proof of guilt in the final case rested on whether certain information was or was not available on the website for the Savoy Hotel.

As he followed Sherlock into the library after dinner, John could tell something was different. Instead of collapsing onto the sofa with a hint of the dramatic, the detective perched on the edge and eyed his brother expectantly. Sure enough, Mycroft waited until John was seated and then cleared his throat to announce, “They have decided we’re uncompromised. We’ll be free to go about our business from tomorrow morning, after the doctor comes to take the wire off Sherlock. I’ve requested new mobiles and laptops be delivered then as well.”

Oh. John straightened as the limbo from the last two weeks vanished, to be replaced from another kind of uncertainty altogether. Rosie was being looked after by some combination of Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and a nanny apparently hand selected by Lady Smallwood. There was the flat, of course, with Mary’s clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. John didn’t know if he could go back there. Not now.

Mycroft’s gaze flickered between his brother and the doctor, appraising something as he continued, “I had an architectural survey performed at Baker Street. It needed some shoring up, but is now considered structurally sound. The smoke has been cleaned, the windows repaired, and some modest redecorating undertaken to repair damage, although I believe the interior is still rather a tip. I could send people to sort through everything.”

“No. We’ll manage.” Sherlock managed to get the words past his closed teeth.

_We’ll manage_. John blinked – it was the royal we again: Sherlock and John. He’d have to ask Molly to help with Rosie until they got more of the mess cleared up. Mycroft looked satisfied, or perhaps a little smug, John was better at reading him, but it wasn’t always clear yet. The evening wrapped up quickly after that. John and Mycroft toasted the imminent rebuilding of 221B with more scotch. Sherlock appeared to be almost vibrating with excitement, even as he claimed tiredness and retreated to his bedroom.

On his own again in the guest bedroom, the Sherlock from John’s visions welled up in his memory: _I love you_. There hadn’t been any conversations about their ordeal, given Sherlock’s inability to speak properly. John rolled over in bed, but couldn’t find a more comfortable position. He was tired, but there was too much running through his head. _I love you_. He flung back the duvet and sat up, considering. Sherlock was surely asleep… yet he found himself pulling on a dressing gown and slippers, and creeping into the hallway. There was a faint light showing under Sherlock’s bedroom door. A few well padded steps and John’s hand seemed to reach out of its own accord. 

Sherlock glanced up as the door opened from where he was sitting up in bed reading. Lit only by the small bedside lap his eyes looked impossibly dark. He didn’t look surprised to see the other man, even as John vacillated on the threshold and stammered, “I, uh, couldn’t sleep and saw the light.”

Sherlock set down the police report and picked up the ever-present pad of paper and pen from his bedside table. He scrutinized John for a moment, still in the doorway, then wrote out the safest of openings: _Looking forward to seeing Rosie?_.

“Oh, yeah.” John smiled broadly and stepped properly into the room, gently closing the door behind himself.

_Me too_. It was the kind of sentence Sherlock could have gotten out verbally, eventually, but at this time of night silence seemed more appropriate. The chair that had been positioned next to the bed had vanished, perhaps returned to whatever room it had been borrowed from. Sherlock glanced at John again, but kept the pad tilted so that the other man couldn’t see what was being written until it was complete: _Imagine what it did to my confused, hypoxic mind when I woke up to you wearing my brother’s ring and he was NAKED. I may never recover._

John snorted in surprise at that, then began to chuckle when Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the mischief out of his own face.

“You should have seen his face when Mrs. Hudson convinced him you are not, in fact, coolly rational, but driven by emotion.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with something that could have been a smile but for the jaw wiring and compression bandages on his chin and throat. “What was the ring about anyway? Some keepsake he wanted found for identification? Or does Mycroft have a secret family I don’t know about? Maybe some teenage daughters that explain his CCTV obsession?”

_Hardly_. The next was going to take longer to write, so Sherlock flicked his head at the standing man and slid across the bed in a clear invitation.

John didn’t let himself think anything of it as he climbed onto the large bed and settled with his back also against the headrest. Sherlock was scribbling away, but the pad was angled in a manner that suggested John needed to be patient. Eventually, Sherlock’s scribbling slowed, then stopped, and the pad was handed over: _Mycroft does permit himself a modicum of sentiment now and then. It was our grandfather’s - think of it as a modern day signet ring. Some minion of his would know what it meant and sort out the paperwork accordingly. If he had died, you’d have been named his heir, or Rosie, if you had been killed as well. Mycroft always pays his debts._ Always was underlined.

John frowned, half in surprise at the magnitude of the potential bequest, half at the notion of a debt being owed. “What debt? To whom?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a gesture that didn’t need paper and pen to convey: _to you, of course._ Snatching back the pad of paper, Sherlock wrote tersely then revealed, _For getting you drawn into the whole mess with Eurus. For not preventing Mary’s death. For looking after me._

Oh. That was… a lot. He risked a glance sideways, and found Sherlock wasn’t interested in making eye contact. A lot, and not all fair either. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Eurus, yes, I’m not particularly pleased about that, although I think he did the best he could. Mary…” Something clenched in his chest but he forced himself to work past it, “It wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, and it wasn’t your fault either.” Where their shoulders were just touching he felt a faint shiver, and it emboldened him to continue, “As for you. I won’t deny you’ve given me more than a few grey hairs.”

“Some might say a headful.” The words were slurred and mumbled, but John caught them anyway.

John could have let the joke deflect from more serious topics, but something about the way Sherlock kept his face in profile made him continue to push, “But you looked after me too.” That seemed to garner some interest, as Sherlock’s head twitched slightly around, before he quickly looked back straight ahead. “More than that: you saved me, Sherlock.” The detective’s head snapped around to face the other man, but John didn’t stop, “And you may have almost killed me when you jumped off that roof, but you came back and saved me all over again.” 

There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that was unsettling. Something he’d never let John see before. It was too dark to see clearly in the small room, with just one lamp, but it was dancing around in Sherlock’s large pupils nonetheless. 

The notepad was forgotten, but Sherlock didn’t want to give voice to mangled words. Not now. The silence stretched until John became uncomfortable, but still Sherlock merely looked at him. 

Sherlock’s hair was a riotous halo, enough to cast shadows in the low light, and John caught himself almost reaching out to smooth it down. He turned the motion into first shifting on the bed, then pulling back and standing up by the bedside table. 

“Right,” John shifted on his feet, “Big day tomorrow. Better let you get some rest.”

Sherlock had barely moved, only tilting his head enough to follow the other man with his eyes. He gave a hint of a shrug as if to say, _if you must_.

“Right then…” John took one, two, three steps back towards the door. “Good night.” Closing the door behind himself, he wondered why his heart was thumping so heavily.


	11. Homecoming

There was evidence of new supporting beams in the front hallway – a straightening of the walls that had been slowly buckling with age. The paint, however, had been carefully matched and the air filtered so there was no trace of smoke or ash. 

Sherlock and John rounded the corner on the stairs and found that a wall had been added, creating a new front door where the landing outside their front room used to start – it essentially made the upstairs bedroom a clear part of their flat. It was an odd change to make, unless it masked an additional support… or Mrs. Hudson had asked to turn it into a more self-contained flat to let. The front room had been completely redone as well – only the missing personal touches showed the magnitude of what had happened. The yellow smiley face on the wall was gone. The furniture present had been cleaned, with a few pieces obviously newer copies of what had been there before. Some of the pictures had been re-framed and returned to the walls, but there were large piles of things on the living room floor with the bison skull perched sadly on top. They both froze on the threshold of the room: it looked like a funeral pyre. 

Sherlock broke the spell and strode into the room, lifting the skull off a wobbly stack of books as he surveyed the walls. Following a wire that protruded from another stack, John retrieved the ageing set of headphones. Sharing a smile, they set the skull to rights. The wires on Sherlock’s jaw had been removed, but a compression bandage remained in an attempt to minimize the scarring. He could certainly speak more easily without the wire, but it seemed comfortable to work in silence. 

Methodically, they worked from one end of the room to the other, sorting, stacking, replacing. Finally, hours later, they reached the mantle and a few singed papers that Sherlock carefully stabbed back into place. 

_“I love you.”_ The phantom Sherlock’s words ruffled the hair on the back of John’s neck as he met the other man’s smile. For the first time, he imagined kissing Sherlock, right there by the fireplace. It made him startle and he came back to himself to find the real Sherlock’s smile starting to slip.

Forcing his smile back, John let himself enjoy the relief of seeing the front room back in order. It was the right thing to do - the pinched look that had appeared around Sherlock’s eyes vanished. They collapsed into their chairs and Sherlock kicked his long legs out, exhausted after the early start at the doctor’s that morning. 

John chuckled, weakly, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so much before in my life.”

“Says the man with the toddler.” Sherlock’s voice sounded slightly hoarse, as if disused. “I thought that was nothing _but_ cleaning.”

John groaned, remembering the mountains of bibs and unspeakable diapers. The thought of Rosie, however, nagged on him. She was still with Mollie and a nanny in a suite at a posh hotel across town.

Sherlock realized it as well. “You need to go.”

“I need to go,” John echoed. Sherlock seemed to deflate slightly into his chair, and the thought of his own flat filled with memories of Mary held no appeal. But Rosie... the thought of her made him stand and collect his jacket. Turning in the doorway he found Sherlock still staring towards the empty chair. “I’ll text, later, once I pick her up. We can come by tomorrow after we’re settled.”

Sherlock nodded, gaze slowly tracking up to meet John’s.

“Alright?”

There was no other acceptable response between two British men: with a nod, Sherlock affirmed, “alright.” And then John was gone.

Sherlock sat in his chair, thinking. Normally thinking. About nothing in particular: soil composition, aldehydes, Victorian flower symbolism. His mind palace didn’t hold any appeal. The shadows lengthened, and still his phone didn’t vibrate. Eventually, his thoughts came around to the new front door. It was the only significant change to the flat, but Mycroft hadn’t mentioned it. Why?

Slowly, he hauled himself up from the chair and towards the front door. Yes, it was just as he’d seen when they entered: it set the two floors apart from the rest of the building, creating a proper flat rather than a set of rooms. Why? Trailing a hand along the bannister, Sherlock climbed the stairs towards John’s old room. There was a faint scent of fresh paint. Paint? The damage surely hadn’t extended this far. 

Sherlock pushed the door open and was confronted by walls covered in a fresh coat of pale yellow. There was a rocking chair from his dimly rediscovered memories. A wooden toy box - hand made and expensive. The bookshelf under the window was already filled, _The Wind in the Willows, Peter Rabbit, The Tiger Who Came to Tea, Winne-the-Pooh _. The titles continued, the books neatly ordered by size. The large wooden crib had a bedspread decorated with a pattern of tiny roses. Liberty, if he wasn’t mistaken.__

__A little girl’s room._ _

__A little girl’s room in Baker Street._ _

__For babysitting? Sherlock consulted his phone - still no text. He turned, slowly, and left the room, closing the door tightly behind himself. Going back downstairs, he realised he hadn’t eaten since the morning and it was now long after sunset. The fridge was well stocked, as were the cabinets._ _

__Sherlock heated a can of tomato soup._ _

__He made tea._ _

__He sat at the table, alone, and ate. His phone didn’t vibrate._ _

__He did the washing up._ _

__He changed out of his clothes and into a comfortable pair of pyjamas and dressing gown._ _

__He gingerly lifted the pressure bandage and applied some of the anti-scarring gel, taking care to avoid looking closely into the mirror as he did so. He didn’t want to know what his chin looked like._ _

__He brushed his teeth._ _

__He climbed into his bed - still no message on his phone. The flat was quiet. Empty. Eventually, he turned off the light._ _


	12. Amo

John lay awake. The flat was quiet, but not empty: Rosie was asleep in her room. It had been so good to pick up his daughter. To hold her close and inhale her scent of soap and something inherently his daughter. 

The bed still felt strange - too large. He shifted into the middle, then back to his side. The loss of Mary was palpable, but it still felt more like home than Mycroft’s guest bedroom. John stretched, then relaxed. Sleep came quickly.

*****************************************

“Ooo-Hoo!”

Sherlock blearily raised his head from the pillow to find Mrs. Hudson leaning around his bedroom door. “What…” His voice caught and rumbled in his throat, gritty from a largely sleepless night. “What time is it?”

“Half-ten, Sherlock. I know you’re worn out, but it looked like you hadn’t had anything but a bowl of soup for dinner.”

Ten thirty. He sat up and risked a glance at his phone: no messages.

His landlady was still regarding him from the doorway. She caught the glance and said, “I’ll put the kettle on. You freshen up and we can have some breakfast.”

She disappeared and Sherlock checked his phone again before slowly climbing out of bed. The temptation to simply grab a dressing gown was overridden by two weeks of being an invalid.

His suit was a little looser than he remembered. He’d lost weight with his jaw wired shut. Shaving was awkward with the bandages, but he was tired of feeling scruffy. Carefully working around the borders took longer than usual. By the time he emerged into the kitchen Mrs. Hudson had a pan of bacon frying and was holding her own mug of tea. Sherlock sank into a chair at the kitchen table - more clean and empty than he had ever seen it. 

Bringing his mug over the the table, Mrs. Hudson slung an impulsive arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and planted a quick kiss on the top of his head. “It’s so good to have you home.” Years ago he’d have gone rigid, perhaps even curled his lip in disgust at a sentimental gesture like that. Instead, he felt himself ever to slightly lean into the warm embrace. She gave his shoulders one last squeeze, then bustled back to the stove and briskly cracked eggs into the pan. “I won’t lie, Sherlock, that was an ostentatiously nice hotel your brother put me in, but it sure is good to be home.” She slid bacon and eggs onto two plates and joined him at the table. “This I’ll enjoy while it lasts - you don’t think that _perhaps_ you could keep the kitchen in this state? 

“I need somewhere for my microscope,” he thought of the bedroom upstairs and added, “but perhaps I could save the noxious chemicals for Bart’s.”

There was something knowing about her smile as she nodded, then tucked into breakfast. They ate together in companionable silence only broken by Mrs. Hudson when their plates were clean. “I called him a reptile, you know.” She chuckled over the rim of her mug. “Perhaps there is a drop of warm blood in him after all.” 

The way she said it told Sherlock that the front door to the flat had not been her idea, and that she knew exactly what John’s old bedroom looked like. He shifted in his chair and asked, “How is Rosie?”

“She missed her daddy. Poor dear was inconsolable after a nightmare one evening. But she loves Molly and the girl Mycroft’s friend picked out was very good as well.” 

“She loves her Nana Hudson too.” It was the right thing to say, judging by the crinkling around her eyes. Sherlock wondered when he’d started trying to elicit responses like that in other people.

Breakfast done, she topped up their tea and shooed him into the front room before tackling the washing up. 

There was a newspaper waiting by his chair, so he picked it up and made it all the way to the football before it occurred to him to check his phone again. No messages. Mrs. Hudson finished tidying up and announced she was going to pop over to the shops. For what, he wasn’t sure. Surely her kitchen was as well stocked as his own.

It was almost three in the afternoon when his phone finally vibrated and chimed: _Sorry I didn’t text yesterday - got carried away with Rosie. Good to be home?_

He waited a few seconds, then replied, _Very. How is Rosie?”_

There was only a few seconds delay in return before, _Lovely as ever, although unimpressed with how long I was away._

 _Hudders said she missed you._ He could sense John’s chuckle at that.

_She missed me, or Rosie missed me?_

_Both, presumably._

_Got to run - she’s waking up from her nap._

Sherlock quickly typed and deleted several responses, then settled for, _Take care._

_You too._

No mention of stopping by that day. 

Sherlock dropped his phone onto the side table. Fine. He had things to do anyway. Picking up his new laptop instead, he started trawling through all the news stories and police reports he’d missed in the intervening weeks. Fortunately, the criminal element of London hadn’t been idle. He’d solved three minor cases by the time the sun was setting outside, and had a strong hunch on a fourth. Lestrade would have to follow-up with the crime lab-- he didn’t feel like traipsing across town himself.

The unfamiliar sound of the new front door opening had him half rising from his chair in case it was Mrs. Hudson with the shopping. When the door to the front room opened there were indeed laden carrier bags, but they were followed by John. 

With one armful of takeaway from his favourite Thai restaurant, and the other carrying Rosie, John caught the expression on Sherlock’s face and rolled his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. I said we’d come by.” When the other man appeared stuck in place he indicated his laden arms. “A little help?”

Rosie was wriggling at the sight of her godfather, so Sherlock quickly moved to take her. One arm went around his neck and the other fisted the fabric of his suit jacket and a muffled, “Ock,” was lost in his lapel.

“Hey, Rosie,” he patted her back as she snuggled into his chest, “We missed you.”

There was a satisfied mumble that might have been, “Ock, ock, ock,” followed by something like a raspberry.

John breezed past them into the kitchen, depositing the bags on the table, “Je-sus,” he whistled through his teeth, “it’s clean in here.”

Sherlock trailed along with Rosie in his arms, “Mrs. Hudson already remarked on that this morning.”

“I suppose I should enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll bet I don’t even have to worry about which mug may have had eyeballs in it most recently.”

“I was considering keeping the noxious chemicals in the lab at Bart’s.” He didn’t even mention the microscope.

“Oh,” John maintained an air of nonchalance as he transferred the takeaway to two plates, “that will be a change then.” 

The food smelled wonderful - John had remembered Sherlock’s favourites and bought his own as well. Sherlock sat down, Rosie on his lap, and tucked into his meal. Rosie kept one arm wrapped around her godfather, the other she used to steal fistfulls of rice from the edge of his plate. John had to suppress a smile as his daughter’s face and the front of his best friend’s expensive jacket looked increasingly like there had been an unseasonable snowstorm.

They chatted about nothing in particular as they ate: mostly news stories that had unfolded during their time without access to the outside world. When they were done eating John did the washing up while Sherlock attempted to clean off Rosie and himself, eventually consigning his jacket to the dry cleaning hamper before joining John in the front room in front of the fire. As they continued to chat about the news, Rosie played on the carpet for a while before clambering back into John’s lap and falling asleep.

Eventually, the topic of the news slowly wound down and John asked, “So how are the renovations? Mycroft sneak in any hidden cameras?”

If only he knew. Sherlock addressed the latter question instead, “None that I’ve found so far. Perhaps he’s still a little off his game from the hypothermia.”

“Maybe he’s mellowed?”

“Never.” Sherlock risked a grin. “Lady Smallwood would eat him alive.” 

John’s snort shook his frame enough to make Rosie squirm and let out a grumble, eyelids starting to flutter. “Oh. Sorry. I’d better get her to a real bed before she starts to fuss.”

It was the right thing to do, of course, but Sherlock suddenly knew he didn’t want to be alone in the flat again that night. Impulsively, he said, “Don’t go.” 

John looked from the other man to his stirring daughter, “She needs her bed, Sherlock. It will be late enough by the time I take a taxi back to the flat.”

 _Back to the flat_ , not home. Sherlock’s mouth felt dry, but in light of the slip of John’s tongue he made himself continue, “The redecoration: he did it upstairs too.”

“He painted my room? Mycroft, you mean?”

Sherlock swallowed. He wasn’t being clear at all. “I mean, he changed it. He… Oh, just bring her up.” He led the way up the stairs, not daring to look back even as he sensed the other man following him. Opening the door and stepping aside, Sherlock heard an audible intake of breath from the doctor.

John entered the room slowly, taking in the changes to his former home. He shifted to cradle his daughter with one arm, freeing a hand to trail along the top of the rocking chair and then open the dresser to confirm that it was, indeed, already stocked with clothing, diapers and other toddler paraphernalia. There was a lump in his throat that he had to swallow hard to clear before he said, “I’ll put her down. Why don’t you see if Mycroft replaced the whiskey supply as well?”

Hovering just outside the door, Sherlock nodded, convulsively despite his bandages, and then disappeared down the stairs. 

Familiar nighttime rituals on a sleepy toddler occupied John’s attention for a quarter of an hour. Once Rosie was settled into the crib and sound asleep, John grabbed the remote monitor from the dresser and headed back down the stairs. 

Sherlock was silhouetted in front of the fire. Aside from the bandages on his neck and chin, he looked like a thousand other nights John had seen him there. There was a glass of scotch in the detective’s hand, and a matching one waiting by the empty chair.

John settled into his chair, saluting the other man with his glass before he took a sip. It was good. Very good. Mycroft must have upgraded the liquor cabinet as well. He took another sip and watched Sherlock watch the fire. Then another, before he asked, “How is your neck healing?”

“Fine.” Sherlock turned away from the fire to face John and shrugged, “I assume anyway. Haven’t looked.”

John frowned. “You haven’t looked? Haven’t you been using the scarring gel?”

“I’ve used the gel.” Sherlock fidgeted under the scrutiny, “I just didn’t look.”

It was the fidgeting versus the usually so sure demeanour that told John to pay attention. Didn’t look? Wouldn’t he want to… Oh. Right. That this hadn’t occurred to him in the last two weeks was inexcusable. For all his air of not caring, there was no denying Sherlock was a touch vain. Not to mention that he’d been called a freak enough times in his life _without_ having a great big scar on his neck and face. 

The firelight glinting off Sherlock’s eyes made them unreadable. Tentatively, John leaned forward and asked, “Do you want me to look?”

Sherlock didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either. Instead, he set down his glass and leaned back slightly, leaving his neck exposed in an invitation. John set down his own glass and moved to crouch in front of the detective’s chair. Carefully, he reached up and eased the bandage loose, peeling it away fully once it released from the skin.

Oh. John reached out and gently stroked the new pink skin and stubble under Sherlock’s jaw. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed underneath as he swallowed rapidly and John couldn’t resist gently running a finger down towards the top of the other man’s collar.

Unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock whispered, “Well?”

“It’s…” John couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Fine. It’s fine, Sherlock. There’s new skin that looks very raw and I can see where there was extensive bruising and some incisions from the surgery, but it’s fine. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, disbelief and relief in equal measures. “Really?”

There was something so vulnerable in the question that John couldn’t help but reach up with his hand to touch the skin again in confirmation. “Really.” And then, before he quite knew what he was doing, John slid his hand around to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled the other man down so he could plant a gentle kiss right on the edge of the new skin. Under John’s lips, Sherlock’s pulse accelerated even as the detective froze.

It was wonderful for all of three seconds, and then reality caught up with John. This was Sherlock. Real Sherlock, not an imaginary one. The detective was still frozen in place, so John gathered his courage and rocked back onto his heels.

They regarded each other in something akin to stunned horror until Sherlock blurted out, “I don’t think you’re supposed to ingest that gel.” He blinked. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

“No.” John felt the breath he’d been holding gust right out of him and after catching it again he bit back a nervous chuckle, “No, that was absolutely right.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No!” Then, more softly, “no.” From below it was evident how tired Sherlock was: there were dark smudges under his eyes and a small tremor in his hands. “Last night, did you sleep?”

Sherlock scoffed, as if the concept of sleep was absurd no matter that his transport had nearly failed him recently.

Nervously, John reached up and placed his hands on Sherlock’s knees, noting the faint tremors there as well. “Whatever your body is doing to heal like _that_ will take a lot of energy.” The other man was looking somewhere over the top of John’s head and didn’t acknowledge his words. Giving the knees a gentle squeeze, he asked, “Mind if I stay here tonight?”

Here? The word made its way flailing into Sherlock’s consciousness as gracelessly as his leap through the front window. Wasn’t that what he’d asked earlier, without any thought for the implications. “Not at all.” He cringed, aware he sounded like a public schoolboy talking to a housemaster.

John didn’t seem to mind, as he stood and tugged Sherlock up after him. “Come on.” He’d led the other man through the flat before, but this time there was something in the touch of their fingers that almost terrified him. Going down the hall he skirted the bedroom and went back to comfortable routines: the medical kit was still where it belonged and Sherlock’s bandages and gels were strewn over the top of the sink. He sat the other man on the edge of the bathtub and carefully applied and covered a new coat of gel-- hands methodical and clinical until he applied the last piece of tape. 

Sherlock’s eyes were shut. 

John cupped the side of the detective’s jaw, gently over the bandage, then slowly slid his hand down the side of the other man’s neck and around the front of his collar. Rubbing the first button between thumb and forefinger, he asked, “Can I?”

Eyes still shut, Sherlock nodded.

Carefully watching every flicker of emotion on the other man’s face, John slowly undid the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and then eased it down and off his shoulders. “Shuffle out of that.”

With soft movements, as if afraid of making any noise, Sherlock slid his shirt down his arms and off entirely. He didn’t dare look-- barely even breathed. There was a long pause where he was keenly aware of every thud of his heart. When a familiar soft cotton was draped over his bare shoulder his eyes snapped open again. 

There were small wrinkles around John’s eyes as he smiled, fondly, “Get that on and let’s get to bed. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” He turned and left the room, allowing Sherlock a few moments alone to collect his thoughts.

John walked slowly into the bedroom, afraid he’d overdone it. Three minutes, he told himself. If Sherlock didn’t come out of the bathroom within three minutes he’d go to sleep on the couch. Or, better still, take Rosie home to bed.

Twenty-four seconds later Sherlock came into the room, more hesitantly than anyone had the right to look in his own bedroom. “I…” He trailed off, then shrugged, prepared words obviously failing him.

“Come on.” John flipped back the duvet, invitingly, then came around to stand in front of the other man. Slowly, leaving every possible measure of room for Sherlock to change his mind, John gently undid the buckle on Sherlock’s belt. Masculine hips… not totally unfamiliar between medicine and the army. He pulled the fabric away just slightly, then stepped back so Sherlock could finish the job. “Off with the trousers and into bed.”

More quickly than he’d expected, Sherlock complied, tugging his trousers off and then crawling into the near side of the bed. 

Switching off the light, John moved with practiced ease around the foot of the bed, shucking his own outer clothes as he did so. He crawled into the other side of the bed, then reached out and placed a hand gently over the middle of Sherlock’s chest. The little indented scar from Mary’s bullet was palpable under his fingertips, along with a reassuring heartbeat underneath. “Sleep well, Sherlock.” The pulse under his hand gave a little jolt of increased speed, then slowed again. 

With something that was almost surprise in his voice, Sherlock said, “Sleep well, John.”

Sherlock didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up at two o’clock in the morning. It was the one habit from his years as a ghost that he’d never fully broken, and at two am and four am, if he’d been to sleep at all, he would wake up. Not for long, but enough to check for danger. At two o’clock in the morning Sherlock swam back to awareness with the realization that there was someone next to him. _In bed_ with him. Slowly, slowly… he turned over. The line of John’s nose was just visible where the streetlamp was bleeding around the edge of a poorly shut blind. _Oh_ , Sherlock breathed, and there was _John_ in the breath as well. He shifted onto his side so that he could watch the near silhouette of John sleeping on the next pillow.

Sherlock didn’t wake up at four o’clock in the morning.

 

*************************************

When Sherlock did become more aware of himself again, there was a weight on his chest. A weight on his chest, he amended, and something tickling against his collarbone. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he was confronted by… hair? Greying hair, a couple inches long, and the sensation of what might be a slightly damp patch out of view on his shirt. It took him a moment to figure it out: John was twisted-- head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest and one arm wrapped around for good measure, even as his lower body was angled away.

It was pleasant.

Sherlock’s arm that was trapped under John’s shoulders felt slightly numb, so he gently slid it free, then held it carefully out of the way until sensation returned. The etiquette of the situation eluded him. It was clearly morning-- did he wait for John to wake-up? Wait, he decided, and enjoy the chance for observation. The color of John’s hair, for example, greyer than when he’d last been so close. The length had changed as well, becoming distinctly more stylish around the time Rosie was born. As much as some would suppose Mary had suggested a change like that, Sherlock knew it would have been John experimenting with his looks again. He’d kept things toned down after the terrible moustache, but impending fatherhood had obviously prompted him to catch up with fashion as best as he could.

Sherlock knew what the hair smelled like - he’d stolen enough of John’s shampoo for experiments over the years. After visually assessing its properties, there was only one dimension left. Carefully, he brought his freed hand hand up and gently touched the other man’s hair-- slightly coarse, but still soft-- and nearly jumped when John’s arm gave an answering squeeze around his middle.

From south of Sherlock’s collarbone, but north of his navel, came a sleep-husky, “Good morning.” 

That was it-- just, good morning. The other man didn’t seem inclined to move, so Sherlock replied, “Good morning.” He licked his lips, then confessed, “I was… cataloguing your hair.”

“Oh.” As the detective began to curse himself for saying the wrong thing, again, John rolled over so he was looking up at Sherlock and asked, “Get enough data?”

There were little crinkles around John’s eyes-- the same ones that appeared when he was playing with Rosie or hugging Mrs. Hudson. He’s happy, realized Sherlock. Actually happy. Emboldened, Sherlock brought his hand up again and buried it in John’s hair as he said, “One can never have too much data, John.” 

As John leaned into his hand, Sherlock realized that he, too, was happy. Very happy, and not just that, content to enjoy the experience of the emotion as well. 

A noise from the baby monitor broke the spell and John sat up, quickly followed by Sherlock. Running a hand back through his hair to flatten it again, John said, “I’ll go get her.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and a little glassy and John eyed him, ruefully, “I’d tell you not to go anywhere, but she’ll want breakfast and I’d kill for a cuppa.”

Sherlock nodded, then impulsively and just because he could, reached out and pulled John forwards to plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. He felt John still this time, the opposite of the night before, so he kissed him again a little longer and more firmly, before he pulled back and said, “I’ll make it.”

John smiled, and Sherlock knew that for once he’d done just the right thing. “That would be lovely. Borrow your dressing gown?” And without even waiting for a reply, John climbed out of bed and took Sherlock’s second best dressing from its hook as if it were the most normal gesture in the world. One more quick smile towards the bed and he slipped around the door.

Sherlock had lied, of course. It was possible to have too much data, and the salience of data from _kissing John Watson_ was threatening to overwhelm him. He slumped back against the headboard and replayed every sensation, trying to leave nothing out of what he stored in his mind palace.

“Sherlock?” John leaned back around the doorframe and waited until he had the other man’s attention before he said, “I love you,” then vanished again in a swirl of dressing gown.

Oh. Sherlock splayed his fingers on the duvet and looked at the spaces between them. Softly, he whispered to himself, “I love you, too”

A few words of John singsonging good morning to Rosie came through the monitor before it was switched off at the other end. Stretching, then rising as well, Sherlock put on his best dressing gown and padded into the kitchen. Methodically, he set the kettle on the stove and readied two mugs, lightly toasted a piece of bread and cut it into small strips before peeling and chopping a banana as well. More slices of bread went into the toaster on a normal setting and were ready by the time John carried Rosie into the kitchen. 

“Look, Rosie, Sherlock made us breakfast.” John chuckled and adjusted his grip as she leaned towards the banana. “Mmmmm, your favourite!” He settled into his chair and let her feed herself, ignoring the mess in favor of sipping his own tea.

Sherlock brought his mug and plate over and enjoyed the domesticity of a kitchen table, even as Rosie left streaks of mashed banana across the once pristine surface. He topped up her plate with torn-off pieces from his own toast and caught John smiling over the rim of his mug. What would Mary have thought of them, he wondered? Knowing her, she’d probably say something both perceptive, kind, and a little acerbic all in one. She’d loved the flat too, even if she’d always maintained it was a bit scruffy.

Rosie lunged across the table and helped herself to Sherlock’s toast as well. It was going to be a good morning.

 

*************************************

Sherlock kicked his legs out in front of his chair and sighed. It was, he thought, the most perfect day so far. Better than the Sussex Vampire. The water was running in the bathroom as John gave Rosie her bath-- they’d worn her out walking in Regent’s Park all afternoon. Truth be told, they’d worn him out as well. Who knew ducks could be quite that interesting? 

After breakfast, once the banana was cleaned up, they’d taken a taxi over to John’s flat and without discussion packed up Rosie’s high chair, stuffed toys and a suitcase of John’s things as well. Mrs. Hudson had joined them for lunch, clucking over Rosie and, he thought, them as well. She must have noticed that Rosie’s pram had stayed in the entrance hall overnight. 

What was supposed to be a short after lunch walk in the park had lasted for hours. First with a stroll by the boating lake, then visiting the ducks. After the ducks, Rosie had fallen asleep in her pram as they walked through the formal gardens towards the zoo. At one point when they were alone on the outer circle John had shifted his grip so he was pushing the pram with one hand and could reach down and gently take one of Sherlock’s with the other. They walked for so long Rosie woke up again and had to be changed, before another hour looking at and chasing ducks. The sun set while they were still at the edge of the park so they’d stopped for dinner at a pub. Two men and a toddler-- it had earned them a free portion of mashed potatoes and cooing from the waitress. 

There was a chime and a buzzing from his phone. Sherlock wearily pulled it out and opened the message: _I gather John and Rosie did not return home last night._

Mycroft, meddling as always. The usual stab of anger didn’t come and Sherlock frowned at its absence. Perhaps John was right and they’d both mellowed. He remembered John leaning around the doorframe, and his own fingers spread on the duvet. And Rosie, when he’d shown her that a duck could be persuaded to come out of the water and investigate whether he had any food for it.

Unlocking his phone again, he typed back: _Well, you know Love._

Somewhere deep under Whitehall Mycroft snorted to himself, “Love? Oh, brother mine…” After a minute, Sherlock’s phone vibrated with a message: _About time._

“Mycroft?” Lady Smallwood leaned around his office door. “You did promise to take me to dinner. Are you done with Langale’s briefing?”

“Done and sent.” Mycroft stood and gathered up his umbrella, gratified when she smiled. About time indeed.


End file.
